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READEH AND SPEAKER; 
 
 LESSONS 
 
 RHETORICAL READING 
 
 DECLAMATION. 
 
 BY SAMUEL PUTNAM. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY FRENCH & ADLARD. 
 
 1836. 
 
Y^ 
 
 
 1.0 \ 
 
 Entered, 
 
 According to Act of Congress, in the year 1833, by 
 
 SAMUEL PUTNAM,. 
 
 In the Clerk's office of the District Court of the Southern Di3trict of 
 
 New York;. 
 
 J^ftyj^. 
 
 STEREOTYPED BY FRANCIS P. RIPLEY, 
 NEW YORI^. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The compiler of this volume, having been for several years em- 
 ployed in conducting the education of youth, has found it very dif- 
 ficult to obtain select pieces of composition, suited both to the pur- 
 poses of declamation, and to the capacities of his pupils. There are, 
 indeed, excellent (collections of pieces, designed for declamation, 
 selected from the best orators, ancient and modern ; but these are 
 almost exclusively intended for scholars in the higher stages of educa* 
 tion; and it is as unreasonable to think of teaching a boy to speak 
 eloquently, by requiring him to commit and rehearse these specimens 
 of elevated oratory, as to think of teaching the child, who has just 
 learned his alphabet, to read accurately, by assigning him a lesson in 
 the "Paradise Lost.'^ Would we wish a lad to recite the ideas of 
 another with correctness of tone and inflexion, and with a vivacity 
 and energy of enunciation, indicating an adequate perception of the 
 power of language, it would be requisite for him to have a full appre- 
 hension of the import of such composition ; otherwise he will be drawn 
 into the exercise of speaking, by a sort of physical compulsion, with 
 the feelmg of one who is obliged to say something, rather than of one 
 who has something to say. It is in this view of the subject, that the 
 compiler has been induced to collect into a body, such specimens of 
 composition as are adapted to the purposes of declamation, and level 
 to the capacities of those for whom they are designed. 
 
 In regard to another peculiarity of the work — which its name im- 
 ports—the compiler would remark, that it has been suggested by fre- 
 quently observing the peculiar feeling of his pupils, when prompted, 
 in the midst of the performance, for some fault too great to be over- 
 looked. The only etfectual remedy which he has found for this evil is, 
 10 make use of the piece as a reading lesson ; and while reading, the 
 pupil can be prompted at pleasure, till he becomes correct and familiar 
 with all the emphases, tones, pauses, and inflexions, requisite to the full 
 expression of the writer's sentiments and feelings. This being ac- 
 complished, it becomes very easy to commit the piece to memory; a 
 consideration of no trivial importance with some scholars. 
 
 He has also had occasion to remark, that, «o far from any loss of 
 interest in such pieces, they have, without exception, been read with 
 ijiereased interest, by every member of the class, whenever they 
 
have occurred in the course of class reading. Thus, Declamation 
 seems— if we may be allowed the expression— to pay back to Reading 
 the debt thus contracted, and both are gainers by the operation. 
 
 What he conceives to be another advantage of the plan, is, that 
 those pieces which are suited for declamation, are, almost without ex- 
 ception, good reading lessons. 
 
 The selection has been made indiscriminately, from American and 
 foreign writers; the object of the compiler being to collect, wherever 
 he could find them, specimens of rhetorical composition, adapted to 
 his purpose. He has endeavoured to select, not only such as are 
 intelligible^ in their scope and sentiment, to those for whom they were 
 designed, but such also, as have been found, on actual experiment, to 
 interest them ; because boys, like men, must be interested in what 
 they have to say, if they would say it with ease and elegance, with 
 force and accuracy. 
 
 The utmost care has been taken, that the moral sentiment of the 
 selections should be not only unexceptionable, but such as should in- 
 spire the tender and susceptible mind of him who recites them, with 
 a generous and an enthusiastic love for what is virtuous and praise- 
 worthy ; so that correct moral principle may be incorporated with the 
 intellectual faculties, in their earliest development and discipline. 
 
 As it was somewhat difficult to find a sufficient number of suitable 
 prose pieces, an unusually large portion of the compilation is made up 
 of poetry ; but the simphcity of its character removes, in a great 
 measure, anjji Objection on this ground. It is, indeed, the poetic cos- 
 tume, that ci 3, for most young minds, so many and so strong 
 attractiouF a for the same reason, a few highly interesting prose 
 
 pieces have been admitted which cannot be considered rhetorical. 
 
 The fact, that so many of the selections are short, must be considered 
 a happy circumstance, as they can, easily, and without disgust, be 
 committed to memory, by quite young pupils : while, at the same time, 
 they secure all the advantages resulting from appearing in the attitude 
 of declaimers. 
 
 There will be found, occasionally, a few pieces of a more elevated 
 character, suited to scholars in the more advanced stages of education. 
 
 The compiler sends this work abroad into the world, hoping that 
 it may contribute something towards unfolding to the minds of youth, 
 the power of language, and discipUning into correctness, graceful- 
 ness, and energy, the faculty of srEBCH, one of the noblest charac- 
 teristics of our nature. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 HYMN TO THE SUN. 
 
 Oh thou, the golden fount of light, 
 Slow rising o'er yon crystal sea, 
 Thou art the glance of One more bright^ 
 More pure, more glorious far than thee. 
 
 He calls thee fjT)m thy eastern bed, 
 He bids thee on the waters shine, 
 And, when thy loveliest beams are, g^.ed, 
 We own in thee his smiles divine'.'/^ " 
 
 When o'er the hills the huntsman roves, 
 And seeks his prey in forests drear. 
 He greets thee in the pathless groves, 
 And scorns the thought of toil or fear. 
 
 When wintry winds assail our shore. 
 And blasts sweep fierce and darkly down, 
 With thee our joy returns once more, 
 Whose smile subdues the tempest's frown. 
 
 To thee the buds of spring we owe. 
 The verdant mounts, the flow'ring plain ; 
 From thee the fruits of autumn flow. 
 And all its stores of yellow gi'ain. 
 1* 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 Shine on, sun ! with golden Hght, 
 And spread thy mantle on the sea ; 
 Thou art the glance of One more bright, 
 More pure, more glorious far than thee ! 
 
 OPPOSITION BETWEEN WAR AND THE GOSPEL. 
 
 The gospel requires men to do good. The very 
 business of war is mischief and damage. The gos- 
 pel requires men to forgive their enemies. Revenge 
 is often the chief design of war. The gospel com- 
 mands men to feed the poor and comfort the afflicted. 
 
 The sword drinks the blood of the afflicted, robs 
 and plunders the poor, covers him with wounds, and 
 leaves him half dead. 
 
 While the devout Christian sits 'pondering how he 
 may comfort the sorrov/ful, enlighten the ignorant, 
 and reform the wicked, the man of blood is contriving 
 and plotting to vanquish yonder army, to ravage the 
 country, covering the fields with the wounded and the 
 dead. 
 
 The gospel forbids murder. Yes, it does. But 
 is not this the grand purpose of war ? Why else all 
 the swords, and balls, and engines of death ? The 
 combination of ten thousand men, to slay ten thou- 
 sand, is not less murderous^ than the resolution of one 
 man to slay one man. Had Cain been a king, and 
 marched an army to destroy his brother, would this 
 have lessened his guilt ? 
 
 Did God not include kings, when he said, " Thou 
 shalt not kill?' Did he not include their victorious 
 legions? If one man may not commit murder, how 
 many must unite to make it innocent and glorious ? 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 7 
 
 May two, — two hundred, — two million ? Two mil- 
 lion have no more right to murder and destroy, than 
 two individuals. 
 
 When pure Christianity shall cover the earth, ava- 
 rice and revenge will be extinguished ; ambition will be 
 dethroned, and war expire. The acknowledged design 
 of the christian rehgion is to induce men to love their 
 enemies, to be like Jesus Christ, who resisted not evil. 
 Is it possible for such a man, to seize his sword, and 
 rush to the hill of battle 1 Can he bid the artilleiy 
 blaze ? Can he become the angel of death, and scat- 
 ter plague and pestilence round the globe ? 
 
 When rulers all possess this benevolence, who will 
 proclaim the war? When com.manders have this 
 sphit, who will order the battle ? When the mass of 
 mankind have the spirit of Christ, where will soldiers 
 be found 1 ^^Tiere will you find a man to slay his 
 neighbour ? 
 
 The rendezvous is forsaken. The shrill pierc- 
 ing, hoarse rattling instruments ; the harsh clattering 
 sounds of martial bands, are silent, as the deserted 
 field of battle, where death riots in dismal solitude. 
 All are gone to the house of worship, to celebrate the 
 jubilee of peace, to join in the song of angels. 
 
 WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER? 
 
 What is that, mother ? 
 
 The lark, my child. 
 The morn has just looked out, and smiled, 
 When he starts from his humble grassy nest, 
 And is up and away with the dew on his breast, 
 
8 ' READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere,- 
 To warble it out in his Maker's ear. 
 Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays, 
 Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. 
 
 What is that, mother? 
 
 The dove, my son. — 
 And that low sweet voice, like a widow's moan, 
 Is flowing out from her gentle breast, 
 Constant and pure by that lonely nest. 
 As the wave is poured from some crystal urn, 
 For her distant dear one's quick return. 
 Ever, my son, be thou like the dove ; 
 In friendship as faithful, as constant in love. 
 
 What is that, mother ? 
 
 The eagle, my boy, 
 Proudly careering his course of joy. 
 Firm, in his own mountain vigour relying ; 
 Breasting the dark storm ; the red bolt defying ; 
 His wing on the wind, and eye on the sun. 
 He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. 
 Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine ; 
 Onward, and upward, and true to the line. 
 
 What is that, mother ? 
 
 The swan, my love. — 
 He is floating down from his native grove, 
 No loved one now, no nestling nigh ; 
 He is floating down, by himself, to die. 
 Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings^ 
 Tet his sweetest song is the last he sings. 
 Live so, my love, that when death shall come, 
 Swan-like and sweet it may waft thee home. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER, 
 
 THE GIPSY WANDERER. 
 
 'TwAs night, and the faraier, his fireside near» 
 O'er a pipe quaffed his ale, stout and old ; 
 The hinds were in bed, v/hen a voice struck his ear, 
 " Let me in, I beseech you !" just so ran the prayer — 
 " Let me in ! — ^I am dying with cold." 
 
 To his seiTant, the farmer cried — " Sue, move thy 
 feet. 
 
 Admit the poor wretch from the stonn ; 
 For our chimney will not lose a jot of its heat, 
 Although the night wanderer may thers find a seat, 
 
 And beside our wood embers grow w^arm." 
 
 At that instant the gipsy-girl,' humble in pace— ^ 
 Bent before him, his pity to crave : 
 
 He, starting, exclaimed, "wicked fiend, quit this 
 place ! 
 
 A parent's curse light on the whole gipsy race ! 
 They have bowed me almost to the grave !" 
 
 " Good sir, as our tribe passed the church-yard be- 
 low, 
 
 I just paused, the tuft graves to survey : — 
 I fancied the spot where my mother hes low. 
 When suddenly came on a thick fall of snow — 
 
 And I know not a step of my way." 
 
 " This is craft !" cried the farmer, " if I judge 
 aright, 
 I suspect thy cursed gang may be near ; 
 Thou wouldst open the doors to the ruffians of night ; 
 Thy eyes o'er the plunder now rove with dehght, 
 And on me with sly treachery leer 1" 
 
10 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 With a shriek — on the floor the young gipsy-girl 
 fell; 
 
 " Help," cried Susan, " your child to uprear ! 
 Your long stolen child ! — she remembers you well, 
 And the terrors and joys in her bosom which swell, 
 
 Are too mighty for nature to bear !" 
 
 OPINION RELATIVE TO THE RIGHT OF ENG- 
 LAND TO TAX AMERICA. 
 
 " But, Mr. Speaker, we have a right to tax Ame- 
 rica." Oh, inestimable right ! Oh, wonderful tran- 
 scendent right ! the assertion of which has cost this 
 country thirteen provinces, six islands, one hundred 
 thousand lives, and seventy miUions of money. Oh, 
 invaluable right ! for the sake of which we have sa- 
 crificed our rank among nations, our importance 
 abroad, and our happiness at home ! Oh, right ! 
 more dear to us than our existence, which has alrea- 
 dy cost us so much, and which seems likely to cost 
 us our all. Infatuated man ! miserable and undone 
 country ! not to know that the claim of right, without 
 the power of enforcing it, is nugatory and idle. We 
 have a right to tax America, the noble lord tells us ; 
 therefore we ought to tax America. This is the pro- 
 found logic which comprises the whole chain of his 
 reasoning. 
 
 Not inferior to this was the wisdom of him who 
 resolved to shear the wolf. What, shear a wolf! 
 Have you considered the resistance, the difficulty, 
 the danger of the attempt ? No, says the madman, 
 I have considered nothing but the right. — Man has a 
 right of dominion over the beasts of the forest : and 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 11 
 
 therefore I will shear the wolf. How wonderful that 
 a nation could be thus deluded. But the noble lord 
 deals in cheats and delusions. They are the daily 
 traffic of his invention ; and he will continue to play 
 off his cheats on this house, so long as he thinks 
 it necessary to his purpose, and so long as he has 
 money enough at command to bribe gentlemen to 
 pretend that they beheve him. But a black and bit- 
 ter day of reckoning will surely come ; and when- 
 ever that day comes, I trust I shall be able, by a par- 
 liamentary impeachment, to bring upon the heads 
 of the auftiors of our calamities the punishment they 
 deserve. 
 
 THE FROST. 
 
 1. The Frost looked forth one still, clear night,. 
 And whispered, " Now I shall be out of sight ; 
 So through the valley and over the height, 
 
 In silence I'll take my way. 
 I will not go on lilie that blustering train, 
 The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain. 
 Who make so much bustle and noise in vain, 
 
 But I'll be as busy as they." 
 
 2. Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its 
 
 crest ; 
 He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dress'd 
 In diamond beads — and over the breast 
 
 Of the quivering lake, he spread 
 A coat of mail, that need not fear 
 The downward point of many a spear 
 That he hung on its margin, far and near, 
 
 Where a rock could rear its head. 
 
12 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 3. He went to the window of those who slept, 
 And over each pane, Hke a fairy crept ; 
 Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepp'd, 
 
 By the light of the morn were seen 
 Most beautiful things, there were flowers and 
 
 trees ; 
 There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees ; 
 There were cities with temples and towers : and 
 these 
 All pictured in silver sheen. 
 
 4. But he did one thing, that was hardly fair ; 
 He peep'd in the cupboard, and finding there 
 That all had forgotten for him to prepare, 
 
 " Now just to set them a-thinking 
 I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, 
 " This costly pitcher I'll burst in three ; 
 And the glass of water they've left for me 
 
 Shall ' tchick !' to tell them I'm drinking !'' 
 
 THE GREAT REFINER. 
 "And he shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver." 
 
 'Tis sweet to feel that he, who tries 
 
 The silver, takes his seat 
 Beside the fire that purifies ; 
 
 Lest too intense a heat. 
 Raised to consume the base alloy, 
 The precious metal, too, destroy. 
 
 'Tis good to think how well he knows 
 
 The silver's power to bear 
 The ordeal to which if goes ; 
 
 And that, with skill and care, 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 13 
 
 He'll take it from the fire, when fit 
 For his own hand to polish it. 
 
 'Tis blessedness to know that he, 
 
 The piece he has begun, 
 Will not forsake, till he can see^ 
 
 To prove the work well done, 
 An image, by its brightness shown, 
 The perfect likeness of its own.* 
 
 But, ah ! how much of earthly mould, 
 
 Dark relics of the mine. 
 Lost from the ore, must he behold, 
 
 How long must he refine. 
 Ere, in the silver, he can trace 
 The first faint semblance to his face ! 
 
 Thou great Refiner ! sit thou by, 
 
 Thy promise to fulfil : 
 Moved by thy hand, beneath thine eye, 
 
 And meked at thy will, 
 Oh, may thy work for ever shine, 
 Reflecting beauty pure as tliine !. 
 
 NORTHERN SEAS. 
 
 Nothing, says a late traveller, can be more surpris- 
 ing and beautiful than the singular clearness of the 
 water of the Northern Seas. As we passed slowly 
 over the surface, the bottom, which here was in ge- 
 neral a white sand, was clearly visible, with its mi- 
 
 * Silver, undergoing the process of refining, suddenly as- 
 sumes an appearance of great brilliancy when purified, and 
 reflects objects like a mirror. 
 
 2 
 
14 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 nutest objects, when the depth was from twenty to 
 twenty-five fathoms. During the whole course of 
 the tour I made, nothing appeared to me so extraor- 
 dinary as the wonders of the deep thus unveiled to 
 my eyes. 
 
 The surface of the ocean was unruffled by the 
 slightest breeze, and the gentle plashing of the oars 
 scarcely disturbed it. Hanging over the gunwale of 
 the boat, I gazed with wonder and delight on the 
 slowly moving scene below. Where the bottom was 
 sandy, the different kinds of shells, &c. even the 
 smallest, appeared at that great depth conspicuous to 
 the eye, and the water seemed in some measure to 
 have the effect of a magnifier, by bringing the objects 
 seemingly nearer. 
 
 Now we saw, far beneath, the ragged side of a 
 mountain, rising toward our boat, the base of which, 
 perhaps, was hidden some miles in the deep below. 
 Though moving on a level surface, it seemed almost 
 as if we were ascending the height under us : and 
 when we passed over its summit, which rose in ap- 
 pearance to within a few feet of our boat, and came 
 again to the descent, which on this side was suddenly 
 perpendicular, as we pushed over the last point of it, 
 it seemed almost as if we had thrown ourselves down 
 a precipice ; the illusion actually producing a sudden 
 start. 
 
 Now we came again to a plain, and passed slow- 
 ly over the sub-marine forests and meadows which 
 appeared in the deeps below ; inhabited doubtless by 
 thousands of animals, unknown to man, to which they 
 afford food and shelter ; and I could sometimes ob- 
 serve large fishes of a singular shape, gliding softly 
 through the watery thickets, unconscious of what was 
 passing above them. As we proceeded, the bot- 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. IS 
 
 torn became no longer visible ; its fairy scenes gra- 
 dually faded from the view, and were lost in the dark 
 green depths of ocean. 
 
 THE OCEAN. 
 
 Perhaps no scene, or situation, is so intensely 
 gratifying to the naturalist as the shore of the ocean. 
 The productions of the latter element are innumerable, 
 and the majesty of the mighty vvaters lends an inter- 
 est unknown to an inland landscape. 
 
 The loneliness too of the sea-shore is much cheered 
 by the constant changes arising from the ebb and 
 flow of the tide, and the undulations of the water's 
 surface, sometimes rolling like mountains, and again 
 scarcely murmuring on the beach. As you gather 
 there 
 
 Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow, 
 
 you may feel with the poet, that there are joys in soli- 
 tude, and that there are pleasures to be found in the 
 investigation of nature of the most powerful and pleas- 
 ing influence. 
 
 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods ; 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore ; 
 There is society where none intrudes, 
 By the deep sea, and music in its roar. 
 
 But nothing can be more beautiful than a view of 
 the bottom of the ocean, during a calm, even round 
 our own shores, but particularly in tropical climates, 
 especially when it consists alternately of beds of sand 
 and masses of rock. 
 
16 ' READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 The water is frequently so clear and undisturbed, 
 that, at great depths, the minutest objects are visible ; 
 groves of coral are seen expanding their variously- 
 coloured clumps, some rigid and immovable, and" 
 others waving gracefully their flexile branches. Shells 
 of every form and hue glide slov/ly along the stones, 
 or cling to the coral boughs like fruit ; crabs and other 
 marine animals pursue their preys in the crannies of 
 the rocks, and sea-plants spread their limber leaves 
 in gay and gaudy irregularity, while the most beauti- 
 ful fishes are on every side sporting around. 
 
 The floor is of sand, like the mountain-drift, 
 
 And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow j 
 From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 
 
 Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow ; 
 The water is calm and still below. 
 
 For the winds and waves are absent there ; 
 And the sands are bright as the stars that glow 
 
 In the motionless fields of the upper air: 
 There, with its waving blade of green. 
 
 The sea-flag streams through the silent water, 
 And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen ' 
 
 To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter; 
 There with a light and easy motion 
 
 The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea, 
 And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 
 
 Are bending like com on the upland lea ; 
 And life in rare and beautiful forms 
 
 Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, 
 
 And is safe when the wrathful spirit of storms 
 Has made the top of the waves his own : 
 And when the ship from his fury flies 
 
 Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, 
 
 When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, 
 And demons are waiting the wreck on shore, 
 
 Then far below in the peaceful sea 
 The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, 
 
 When the waters murmur tranquilly 
 Through the bending twigs of the coral-grove. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 17 
 
 THE BALL. 
 
 My good little fellow, don't throw your ball here, 
 You'll break neighbour's windows, I Imow ; 
 
 On the end of the house there is room, and to spare ; 
 
 Go round, you can have a dehghtful game there, 
 Without fearing for where you may throw. 
 
 Harry thought he might safely continue his play, 
 
 With a little more care than before ; 
 So, forgetful of all that his fa,tlier could say, 
 As soon as he saw he was out of the way. 
 
 He resolved to have fifty throws more. 
 
 Already as far as to forty he rose. 
 
 No mischief yet happened, at all ; 
 One more, and one more, he successfully throws. 
 But when, as he thought, just arrived at the close, 
 
 In popped his unfortunate ball. 
 
 Poor Harry stood frightened, and turning about, 
 
 Vf as gazing at what he had done : 
 As the ball had popped in, so neighbour popped out. 
 And with a good horsewhip he beat him about. 
 
 Till Harry repented his fun. 
 
 WTien little folks think they know better than great, 
 
 And what is forbidden thenj do ; 
 We must also expect to see, sooner or late. 
 That such wise little fools have a similar fate. 
 
 And that one of the fifty goes through. 
 
 2* 
 
18 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 THE SHEEP. 
 
 First Scholar. 
 
 Lazy sheep, piiay tell me why, 
 In the pleasant fields you lie, 
 Eatins: grass, and daisies white, 
 From dewy morn to darksome night? 
 Every thing can something do, 
 But what kind of use are you 1 
 
 Second Scholar. 
 
 Nay, my little master, nay. 
 Do not serve them so, I pray ; 
 Don't you see the wool that grows 
 On their backs, to give you clothes ? 
 Cold, and very cold you'd get, 
 If they did not give you it. 
 
 True, it seems a pleasant tiling. 
 To crop the herbage in the spring ; 
 But many chilly nights they pass, 
 On the cold and wetted grass. 
 Or pick a scanty dinner, where 
 All the common's brown and bare. 
 
 Then the farmer comes at last. 
 When the merry spring is past. 
 And shears their woolly coat away, 
 To warm you in the winter's day ; 
 Little master, this is why. 
 In the pleasant fields they lie. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 19 
 
 THE TRUE HISTORY OF A POOR LITTLE MOUSE. 
 
 A POOR little mouse had once made liim a nest, 
 As he fancied, the warmest, and safest, and best, 
 
 That a poor little mouse could enjoy ; 
 So snug, so convenient, so out of the way, 
 This poor little mouse and his family lay, 
 
 They feared neither pussy nor boy. 
 
 It w^as in a stove that was seldom in use. 
 
 Where shavings and papers were scattered in loose, 
 
 That this poor little mouse made his hole : 
 But alas ! Master Johnny had seen him one day, 
 As in a great fright he had scampered away, 
 
 With a piece of plum-pudding he stole. 
 
 As soon as young Johnny (who, wicked and bad. 
 No pitiful thoughts for dumb animals had) 
 
 Descried the poor fellow's retreat, 
 He crept to the shavings and set them alight. 
 And before the poor m.ouse could run off in his fright, 
 
 It w^as scalded to death in the heat ! 
 
 Poor mouse ! how it squeaked I can't bear to relate. 
 Nor how its poor little ones hopped in the grate, 
 
 And died one by one in the flame ! 
 I should not much wonder to hear that one night. 
 This wicked boy's bed-curtains catching ahght, 
 
 He suffered exactly the same. 
 
 THE LITTLE PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 Mr. L. was one morning ridmg by himself, when, 
 dismounting to gather a plant in the hedge, his horse 
 
20 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 got loose and galloped away before him. He follow- 
 ed, calling the horse by his name, which stopped, but 
 on his approach set off again. At length a little boy 
 in the neighbouring field, seeing the affair, ran across 
 where the road made a turn, and getting before the 
 horse, took him by the bridle, and held him till his 
 cwner came up. 
 
 Mr. L. {looking at the boy and admiring his 
 ruddy countenance) Thank you, my good lad I you 
 have caught my horse very cleverly. What shall I 
 give you for your trouble ? {putting his hand into his 
 pocket.) 
 
 Boy. I want nothing, sir. 
 
 J\Ir. L. Don't you ? so much the better for you. 
 Few men can say as much. But pray what were 
 you doing in the field ? 
 
 B. I was rooting up weeds, and tending the sheep 
 that are feeding on the turnips, and keeping the crows 
 from the corn. 
 
 Mr. L. And do you like this employment ? 
 
 B. Yes, sir, very well, this fine weather. 
 
 J\Ir, L. But had you not rather play ] 
 
 jB. This is not hard work ; it is almost as good as 
 play. 
 
 JVfr. L. Who sent you to work ? 
 
 B. My father, sir. 
 
 JMr. L. Where does he live ? 
 
 B. Just by, among the trees, there sir. 
 
 JVfr. L. What is his name 1 
 
 B. Thomas Hurdle, sir. 
 
 Mr. L. And what is yours? 
 
 B. Peter, sir. 
 
 Mr. L. How old are you ? 
 
 JB. I shall be eight at Michaelmas. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 21 
 
 JVfr. L. How long have you been out in this field ? 
 
 JB. Ever since six in the morning, sir. 
 
 Mr, L, And are you not hungry ? 
 
 B. Yes sir. I shall go to my dinner soon. 
 
 Mr. L. If you had sixpence now, what would you 
 do with it ] 
 
 B, I don't Imow, I never had so much in my Ufe. 
 
 Mr, L, Have you no playthings 1 
 
 B, Pla)ihings ! what are they ? 
 
 Mr, L, Such as balls, ninepins, marbles, tops, 
 and wooden horses. 
 
 B. No sir ; but our Tom makes footballs to Idck 
 in the cold weather, and we set traps for birds ; and 
 then I have a jumping pole and a pair of stilts to w^alk 
 through the dirt with ; and I had a hoop, but it is 
 broken. 
 
 J\h\ L, And do you want nothing else ? 
 
 B, No. I have hardly time for those; fori al- 
 ways ride the horses to the field, and bring up the 
 cows, and run to the town on errands, and that is as 
 good as play, you know. 
 
 Mr, L. Well, but you could buy apples or ginger- 
 bread at the town, I suppose, if you had m.oney. 
 
 B, — I can get apples at home ; and as for gin- 
 gerbread, I don't mind it much, for my mammy gives 
 me a piece of pie, now and then, and that is as good. 
 
 Mr, L, Would you not like a knife to cut sticks ? 
 
 B, I have one — here it is — brother Tom gave it 
 me. 
 
 Mr, L, Tour shoes are full of holes — don't you 
 want a better pair 1 
 
 B, I have a better pair for Sundays. 
 
 Mr, L. But these let in water. 
 
 jB. I don't care for that. 
 
 Mr. L, Your hat is all torn too. 
 
22 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 B. I have a better hat at home, but I had as lief 
 have none at all, for it hurts my head. 
 
 JMr. L. What do you do when it rains ? 
 
 B. If it rains very hard, I get under the fence till 
 it is over. 
 
 Mr, L. What do you do when you are hungry 
 before it is time to go home ? 
 
 B. I sometimes eat a raw turnip. 
 
 JUr. L. But if there are none ? 
 
 B, Then I do as well as 1 can ; I work on and 
 never think of it. 
 
 JMr, L, Are you not dry sometimes, this hot wea- 
 ther? 
 
 B. Yes, but there is water enough. 
 
 Mr. L. Why, my little fellow, you are quite a phi- 
 losopher ! 
 
 B. Sir? 
 
 Mr. L. I say you are a philosopher, but I am sure 
 you do not know what that means. 
 
 B. No sir — no harm I hope. 
 
 Mr. L. No, no ! Well, my boy, you seem to want 
 nothing at all, so I shall not give you money to make 
 you want any thing. But were you ever at school? 
 
 B. No sir, but daddy says I shall go after harvest. 
 
 Mr. L. You will want books then. 
 
 jB. Yes sir, the boys have all a spelling-book, and 
 a testament. 
 
 Mr. L. Well then, I will give you them — tell your 
 daddy so, and that it is because I thought you a very 
 good, contented boy. So now go to your sheep 
 again. 
 
 B. I will sir. Thank you. 
 
 Mr. L. Good bye, Peter. 
 
 JB. Good bye, sir. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 23 
 
 THE HORSE. 
 
 A Horse, long used to bit and bridle, 
 But always much disposed to idle, 
 Had often wished that he was able 
 To steal unnoticed from the stable. 
 
 He panted, from his inmost soul, 
 To be at nobody's control, 
 Go his own pace, slower or faster, 
 In short, do nothing — like liis master. 
 
 But yet, he ne'er had got at large, 
 If Jack (who had liim in liis charge) 
 Had not, as many have before. 
 Forgot to shut the stable door. 
 
 Dobbin, ^\-ith expectation swelling, 
 Now rose to quit liis present dwelling. 
 But iirst peeped out, with cautious fear, 
 To examine if the coast was clear. 
 
 At length he ventured fiom his station, 
 And ^dth extreme self-approbation. 
 As if delivered from a load, 
 He galloped to the public road. 
 
 And here he stood awhile debating, 
 (Till he was almost tired of waiting) 
 t\Tiich way he'd please to bend his course, 
 Now there was nobody to force. 
 
 At last, unchecked by bit or rein, 
 He sauntered doMii a pleasant lane. 
 And neighed forth many a jocund song, 
 In triumph as he passed along. 
 
24 READER AND SPEAKER, 
 
 But when dark night began to appear, 
 In vain he sought some shelter near, 
 And he was sure he could not bear 
 To sleep out in the open air. 
 
 The grass felt very damp and raw. 
 Much colder than his master's straw, 
 Yet on it he was forced to stretch, 
 A poor, cold, melancholy wretch. 
 
 The night was dark, the country hilly, 
 Poor Dobbin felt extremely chilly ; 
 Perhaps a feeling like remorse, 
 Just now might sting the gentle horse. 
 
 As soon as day began to dawn, 
 Dobbin, with long and weary yawn. 
 Arose from this his sleepless night, 
 But in low spirits and bad phght. 
 
 If this (thought he) is all I get, 
 A bed unwholesome, cold, and wet ; 
 And thus forlorn about to roam, 
 I think I'd better be at home. 
 
 'Twas long ere Dobbin could decide, 
 Betwixt bis wishes and his pride. 
 Whether to live in all his danger, 
 Or go back sneaking to the manger. 
 
 At last his struggluig pride gave way ; 
 The thought of savoury oats and hay 
 To hungry stomach was a reason 
 Unanswerable at this season. 
 
 So off he set, with look profound. 
 
 Right glad that he was homeward bound ; 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 23 
 
 And trotting fast as he was able, 
 
 Soon gained once more his master's stable. 
 
 Now Dobbin, after this disaster, 
 Never again forsook his master, 
 Convinced he'd better let him mount, 
 Than travel on his own account. 
 
 THE TWO SIXPENCES THAT AT LAST MADE 
 ONE SHILLING. 
 
 Charles. Harry, w^hat do you think I have got ? 
 
 Harry. How should I know ? Let me see. 
 
 Charles. Why, sixpence, that grandmamma has 
 given me to spend on the Common : it is Election 
 day. 
 
 Harr]j. Ay, so have L — But what do you mean to 
 do with yours ? 
 
 Charles. Why, spend it, to be sure ! — T\Tiatis mo- 
 ney for, I wonder ? 
 
 Harry. But, I mean, what do you want to buy ? 
 
 Charles. 0, want ! Why I'll go to the Common, 
 and find out there. I dare say I shall want a hun- 
 dred things before I have been there five minutes. 
 
 Harry. Then, if I were you, I would not go, for 
 you will be able to have but one. 
 
 Charles. Well, I shall have one, and see the rest, 
 and that will be better than nothing, will it not ? 
 
 Harry. Why, yes, if it be any thing you really 
 want, and will be of any use to you. 
 
 Charles. Oh, I am sure I shall really want it, no 
 fear of that ; and as for use, you would not have me 
 buy a pak of shoes, or a spelling book, because they 
 are .so useful ? I suppose you mean to buy a flannel 
 nightcap, or a peck of potatoes with yours. 
 3 
 
 lb. ' 
 
26 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 Harry, Wliy, perhaps I might, if I wanted them ; 
 but I do not recollect that I want any thing at pre- 
 sent. 
 
 Charles. And I dare say you mean to give your 
 sixpence back again to your grandmamma, because 
 you do not know what to do v/ith it. 
 
 Harry. No, I would rather give it to you, Charles, 
 than return it, for grandmamma would not be pleased 
 with that. But I mean to lay it by, and then the first 
 time I really want any thing, you know, I shall be 
 able to have it. 
 
 Charles. Well, I know who will be a miser, one 
 of these days. 
 
 Harry. What is a miser, Charles ? 
 
 Charles. Why, one that loves his dear money bet- 
 ter than all the world besides, and would starve ta 
 death before he would touch a farthing of it. That is 
 what a miser is, and I know you will be one. Ahy 
 who comes here in such a dismal condition 1 Hey, 
 little boy, what is the matter ] 
 
 Little Boy. dear, sir, I have lost the shilling, 
 and it was all we had in the whole world ! I dropped 
 it here, I fancy, somewhere, and it is quite gone, and 
 now we must all starve again. 
 
 Harry. But do not cry so ; tell us what you were 
 going to do with it. 
 
 Little Boy. 0, sir, to buy a loaf, to be sure ; what 
 else should I buy ? But it is quite gone, and poor 
 mamma must die now — that she must ; Oh dear, 
 Oh dear ! 
 
 Harry. No, that she shall not though, if that be 
 all ; here is sixpence for you, poor thing ! it is all I 
 have got, but perhaps it will buy enough to keep your 
 poor mamma from dying ; will it not? 
 
 Little Boy. 0, yes, dear sir. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 27 
 
 Charles. Well, and here is mine too. Dear Harry, 
 how much better is this than wasting it as I meant to 
 do on the Common ! I would rather feel as I do now, 
 than buy a whole tent. Ah, I see the difference now 
 between you and a miser. 
 
 WHO MADE THE SUN, MOON AND STARS. 
 
 First Scholar. 
 
 I SAW the glorious sun arise 
 From yonder mountains gray ; 
 
 And as he travelled through the skies, 
 The darkness fled away. 
 
 And all around me was so bright 
 
 I wished it would be always light. 
 
 But when his shining course was done. 
 The gentle moon was ever iiigh, 
 
 And stars came t^vinkling, ^ne by one, 
 Upon the shady sky. — 
 
 Who made the sun to shine so far, 
 
 The moon and every twinkling star ? 
 
 Second Scholar, 
 
 'Twas God alone who made them all, 
 
 By his almighty hand : 
 He holds them, that they do not fall, 
 
 And bids them move or stand ; 
 That glorious God, who lives afar, 
 In heaven, beyond the highest star* 
 
28 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 What way does the wind come ? what way does he 
 
 go? 
 He rides over the water, and over the snow, 
 Through wood, and through vale, and o'er rocky 
 
 height, 
 Which the goat cannot chmb, takes his sounding 
 
 flight. 
 He tosses about in every bare tree, 
 As, if you look up, you plainly may see ; 
 But how he will come, and whither he goes, 
 There's never a scholar in England knows. 
 
 He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook, 
 
 And ring a sharp larum ; but if you should look, 
 
 There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow, 
 
 Round as a pillow and whiter than milk, 
 
 And softer than if it were covered with silk. 
 
 Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock, 
 
 Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock ; 
 
 — ^Yet seek him — and what shall you find in the 
 
 place ? 
 Nothing but silence and empty space, 
 Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves, 
 That he's left for a bed for beggars and thieves ! 
 
 Hark ! over the roof he makes a pause, 
 And growls as if he would fix his claws 
 Right in the slates, and, with a huge rattle, 
 Drive them down, like men in a battle. 
 But let him range round, he does us no harm. 
 We'll build up the fire, we're snug and warm ; 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 29 
 
 Untouched by his breath, see the candle shines 
 
 bright, 
 And burns with a clear and steady light ; 
 Books have we to read — hush ! that half-stifled knell, 
 Methinks, 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell. 
 
 Come, now we'll to bed, and when we are there 
 He may work his own will, and what shall we care ? 
 He may knock at the door — we'll not let him in. 
 May drive at the windows — we'll laugh at his din : 
 Let him seek his own home, wherever it be ; 
 Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me. 
 
 SPEECH OF THE SCYTHIANS, TO ALEXANDER 
 THE GREAT. 
 
 If your person were as vast as yotar desires, the 
 whole world would not contain you. — Your right 
 hand would touch the east, and your left the west, 
 at the same time. You grasp at more than you are 
 •equal to. From Europe you reach Asia ; from Asia 
 you lay hold on Europe. And if you should con- 
 quer all mankind, you seem disposed to wage war 
 with woods and snows, with rivers and wild beasts, 
 and subdue nature. 
 
 But, have you considered the usual course of 
 things? Have you reflected that great trees are 
 many years a growing to their height, but are cut 
 down in an hour ? It is foolish to think of the fruit 
 only, without considering the height you have to climb, 
 to come at it. Take care, lest, while you strive 
 to reach the top, you fall to the ground, with the 
 branches you have aheady laid hold on. 
 3* 
 
30 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 The Lion, when dead, is devoured by ravens ; and 
 rust consumes the hardness of iron. There is no- 
 thing so strong, but it is in danger from what is weak. 
 It will, therefore, be your wisdom to take care how 
 you venture beyond your reach. 
 
 Besides, what have you to do with the Scythians ; 
 or the Scythians with you ? We have never invaded 
 Macedonia; why should you attack Scythia? We 
 inhabit vast deserts, and pathless woods, where we do 
 not want to hear the name of Alexander. We are 
 not disposed to submit to slavery, and we have no 
 ambition to tyrannize over any nation. 
 
 That you may understand the genius of the Scy- 
 thians, we present you with a yoke of oxen, an arrow, 
 and a goblet. We use these respectively, in our 
 commerce with friends, and with foes. We give to 
 our friends, the corn, v/hich we raise by the labour of 
 our oxen. With the goblet v/e join in pouring out 
 drink offerings to the gods ; and with the arrows, we 
 attack our enemies. 
 
 You, pretend to be the punisher of robbers, and 
 are yourself the greatest robber the world ever saw. 
 You have taken Lydia ; you have seized Syria ; you 
 are master of Persia ; you have subdued the Bac- 
 trians and attacked India. All this will not satisfy 
 you, unless you lay your greedy and insatiable hands 
 upon oar flocks and herds. 
 
 How imprudent is your conduct! you grasp at 
 riches, the possession of which only increases your 
 avarice. You increase your hunger, by that which 
 should produce satiety ; so that the more you have, 
 the more you desire. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 31 
 
 THE HOLIDAY. 
 
 Day of pleasure, come at last ! 
 All my irksome lessons past ! 
 Now I shall have time to play, 
 And enjoy my holiday. 
 
 Not a book shall meet my view, 
 Nor one stitch of work I'll do ; 
 I may stroll about at ease, 
 Play, or do just as I please. 
 
 But is this what I desire ? 
 Will not so much leisure tire ? 
 Shall I, when the day is o'er, 
 Feel more happy than before ? 
 
 No ; 'tis said that days employed 
 Always are the most enjoyed ; 
 And the truth I must confess — 
 Pleasure is not idleness. 
 
 THE SNO^Y STORM. 
 
 In the month of December, 1821, a Mr. Blake, 
 with his ^vife and an infant, were passing over the 
 Green Mountain, near the town of Arlington, Yer- 
 mont, in a sleidi with one horse. The driftino; snow 
 rendered it impossible for the horse to proceed. Mr. 
 Blake set off on foot in search of assistance, and pe- 
 rished in the storm, before he could reach a human 
 dwelling. The mother, alarmed (as is supposed) at 
 
32 
 
 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 his long absence, went in quest of him with the infant 
 in her arms. She was found, in the morning, dead, 
 a short distance from the sleigh. The child was 
 wrapped in her cloak, and survived the perils of the 
 cold and the storm. 
 
 The cold winds swept the mountain's height, 
 
 And pathless was the dreary wild, 
 And, 'mid the cheerless hours of ni<^ht, 
 
 A mother wandered with her child. 
 As through the drifted snows she pressed, 
 The babe was sleeping on her breast. 
 
 And colder still the winds did blow, 
 
 And darker hours of night came on, 
 And deeper grew the drifts of snow — 
 
 Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone — 
 "O God," she cried, ia accents wild, 
 " If I must perish, save my child !" 
 
 She stripped her mantle from her breast, 
 
 And bared her bosom to the storm, 
 And round the child she wrapped the vest. 
 
 And smiled, to think her babe was warm. 
 ' With one cold kiss, one tear she shed, 
 And sunk upon a snowy bed. 
 
 At dawn, a traveller passed by : ^ 
 
 She lay beneath a snowy veil ; 
 The frost of death was in her eye ; 
 
 Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale : — 
 He moved the robe from off the child ; 
 The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled. 
 
 THE SNAIL. 
 
 The snail, how he creeps slowly over the wall, 
 He seems not to make any progress at all, 
 Almost where you leave him you find him ; 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 33 
 
 His long shining body he stretches out well, 
 And drags along with him his round hollow shell, 
 
 And leaves a bright path-way behind him. 
 Do look, said young Tom, at that lazy old snail. 
 He's almost an hour crawling over a pale, 
 
 Enough ail one's patience to worry ; 
 Now, if I w^ere he, I would gallop away, 
 Half over the world — twenty miles in a day. 
 
 And turn business off in a huny. 
 
 Well Tom, said his father, but as I'm afi*aid 
 That into a snail you can never be made. 
 
 But still must remain a young master ; 
 As such soil: of wishes can notliing avail, 
 Take a hint for yourself from your jokes on the snail 
 
 And do your own %vork rather faster. 
 
 DIALOGUE. 
 
 Edicard. Papa, will you decide which of us two 
 is right ? Charles says that we are Americans, and I 
 thinlv that we are English. 
 
 Father. What makes you think so, child ? 
 
 Edicard. Because w^e speak English, and I know 
 that we are not Americans, because I saw^ in my new 
 picture-book that Americans look lilvc Indians, and 
 that they wear nothing bat skins and blankets, and 
 live in wigwams. 
 
 Charles. And I know we are not Englishmen, be- 
 cause ^ve do not live in England. I know by the 
 map that England is a great way off, and that w^e live 
 in America. 
 
 Father. You are both partly right and partly wrong. 
 
34 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 We are Americans because we were born in America. 
 We speak English because our great-grandfathers, 
 two hundred years ago, were Enghsh people. They 
 came across the sea to this country, when it was co- 
 vered with woods, and built houses, and made it their 
 home. They taught their children and their chil- 
 dren's children to speak English as welj as they, and 
 it is for this reason that we speak the English lan- 
 guage, although we live in America. 
 
 But there were other Americans, a long time be- 
 fore our forefathers came here, who lived in the woods, 
 and got their living by hunting and fishing. These 
 Americans we call Indians. There are but few of 
 them now left among us, but in some parts of Ame- 
 rica, they are the only inhabitants. 
 
 Edward, Did the Indians ever live in the towns 
 where we live ? 
 
 Father, Before the Enghsh people came here to 
 live, there were no towns, but the whole country was 
 covered with woods, and the only people were In- 
 dians. 
 
 Charles, Have all the houses been built, and the 
 fields cleared, and the roads made, since that time ? 
 
 Father, Certainly ; the Indians were too indolent 
 to build any houses, except miserable huts, and to 
 plant fields and gardens. — They only planted a lit- 
 tle corn in the meadows, and in the midst of the trees 
 that had been killed by fire. 
 
 Charles, But that was a great while ago, was it 
 not, father? 
 
 Father. Yes, it would seem a great while to such 
 a boy as you. But when you learn a great deal 
 more' than you know at present, and read the history 
 of other parts of the world, and become acquainted 
 with what was done tv/o thousand years ago, it will 
 
READER AND SPEAKER, 35 
 
 seem to you but a short time since the white peo- 
 ple first came to America. It was twice as long ago 
 as the oldest people can remember, but not so long 
 ago as a great miany things which you can learn from 
 books. 
 
 Edward. How long ago was it that the Indians 
 first came to America ? 
 
 Father. That is what nobody knows, because 
 they were too ignorant to VvTite any books, and there 
 is nobody old enough to remember v/hen it was. 
 
 Charles. I should not think they could find ships 
 enough to bring so many white people to America. 
 
 Father. You are right. When they first came, they 
 were but a few thousand people, and they came at 
 different times. They have been industrious and frugal, 
 and this has made them generally healthy and long- 
 lived, and many more have been born every year 
 than died in the sam.e time, so that they have increas- 
 ed in number very fast. You are too young to know 
 much about these things at present, but, as you grow 
 older, if you are good boys, and read and study a 
 great deal, you will know^ all about them when you 
 grow up. You will soon be old enough to study geo- 
 graphy, and when you have learned that thoroughly, 
 you will be able to read and understand history. 
 
 PREJUDICE. 
 
 " With England no land can compare, 
 For every thing, fine, sweet and rare, 
 So grand, and so rich, and so fair, 
 Old England, nothing like thee ! 
 
Ob READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 The Frenchmen, they say, feed on frogs, 
 The Germans are stupid as dogs, 
 The Dutchmen are clumsy as hogs ; 
 
 Hail England ! Old England for me ! 
 We'll beat them — the cowardly slaves ! 
 For nobly a Briton behaves. 
 He rules both the land and the waves, 
 O, none but bold Britons are free ! '' 
 Thus Edward sang, as round the spacious hall, 
 He whipped his top — A map adorned the wall, 
 On which his father looked, yet list'ning stood, 
 Then called the boy, but in no angry mood. 
 He lifts him to the map, and says, " Look here ; 
 Tell me those countries on each hemisphere :" 
 " Here's Europe, father, 'twixt this sea and this ; 
 How wonderfully large all Europe is ! 
 Yet Asia's larger, to the right it stands ; 
 I scarce can cover it with both my hands. 
 Then there's America, take South and North, 
 What sums of money all this land is worth 1 
 Those heaps of islands in the sea beside. 
 And Africa ! how vast ! how long ! how wide !" 
 " But Edward," cries the father, with a smile, 
 " You have not shown me England, all the while ; 
 Edward, my boy, look sharp, use well your eyes ; 
 Under your little finger England lies." 
 Says Ned, " Ay, this is it ; but, dear, how very small ; 
 I was afraid it was not here at all." 
 Ned listens, and his father thus repKes ; [wise, 
 
 " God formed all things, you know — ^he's good and 
 And can you think so large a world he'd make. 
 Sun, moon, and stars, for little England's sake ? 
 Think of the people by the map or chart. 
 We do not make their hundred thousandth part. 
 If we're the only grain, they chaff and bran, 
 
READRR AND SPEAKER. 87 
 
 God's work was ill bestowed in making man ; 
 Do for your own, what in your power lies, 
 But other countries hate not, nor despise." 
 Cries Ned, "I'll love all good men that I see, 
 And where they're born is all alike to me." 
 
 THE OLD CLOAK. 
 
 ** Your cloak an old one seems to 6e"— » 
 " Why, sir. His good enough for me." 
 
 My cloak is old and quite thread-bare 
 Yet, on my shoulders, thus it goes ; 
 
 'Twill shield me from the frosty air 
 And also from the driving snows. 
 
 And thread-bare though, and old it be, 
 
 I think 'tis good enough for me. 
 
 The boys at school will laugh, you say ? 
 
 Well, they may laugh then, and who cares? 
 I learn as fast though, any day, 
 
 In my clothes, as they do in theirs, 
 And so, for aught that I can see, 
 This cloak is good enough for me. 
 
 But many a boy, sir, I have known, 
 And heard beside of many more, 
 
 Who good kind friends and home had none ; 
 And ragged were the clothes they wore ; 
 
 And when I think of them, I see 
 
 This cloak is good enough for me* 
 
 My Father labours, every day. 
 
 To get us food and things to wear, 
 
 And shall I ask for clothing gay 
 And so redoul^le all his care t 
 4 
 
38 READER AND SPEAKER* 
 
 Of little use, sir, I can be, 
 
 This cloak is good enough for me. 
 
 Mother for us, at evening, sews 
 Until the lamp is quite burnt out, 
 
 And, please you, sir, she keeps our clothes, 
 As whole as any boys about. 
 
 Sure, when so kind my Parents be, 
 
 This cloak is good enough for me. 
 
 Besides, they say they do not seek 
 
 For us this world's gay gear, 
 But " ornament of spirit meek," 
 
 They pray that we may wear. 
 Oh, sir, when such their lessons be, 
 This cloak seems good enough for me. 
 
 THE PRAISES OF A LONG AND HEAVY PURSE, 
 
 I HOPE to meet with the countenance and encourage- 
 ment of this assembly, while I attempt a theme of 
 which, I trust, all will confess the utility. I would 
 speak the praises of a long and heavy purse — well 
 stuffed with substantial coin. While orations are 
 made on all other subjects of all kinds, it seems quite 
 improper that this should be neglected. The present 
 scarcity of cash, must give peculiar force to the ar- 
 guments with which this theme abounds ; it is gene- 
 rally the scarcity of any thing valuable, which effec- 
 tually teaches us to esteem it. Who then can be 
 more sensible than we are of the value of that ready 
 assistant in all manner of business ? Some have as- 
 serted that it is in the power of money to do any 
 thing ; that it can change vice into imaginary virtue. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 39 
 
 and deformity into beauty. But while we are speak- 
 ing* in this respectable assembly, we have nothing to 
 say of vice, but that we hope it exists not here ; and 
 while we are addressing this lovely assemblage of la- 
 dies, to mention deformity would be straying wide 
 from the purpose. It will not be denied, that with 
 the perfection of beauty, it is very well to possess a 
 handsome interest in pecuniary matters ; it makes 
 the heart cheerful, and the business of life easy. It 
 is wi'itten of Mrs. Primrose, the celebrated wife of 
 the Vicar of Wakefield, that she would have her daugh- 
 ters each carry in their pockets a guinea, without 
 ever changing it, to keep them in spirits. If a single 
 guinea has such virtue, what may not be expected 
 from a long and heavy purse, vr^ell stuffed with them 1 
 It must doubtless do wonders. There are those who 
 maintain that many evils arise from the length and 
 heaviness of the purse ; that it makes prodigals of 
 young heirs, and instigates them to all manner of ex- 
 cesses. But that their purse is not to be blamed 
 may readily be proved. For money is just as will- 
 ing to do good as to do evil, nay it answers its own 
 purpose best by being the instrument of happiness to 
 human kind. If it does, a man's money is no more 
 to blame for his crimes than his bodily strength for 
 his committing murder. For my part, though I have 
 never experienced so much of the benefit of money, 
 as some men have, yet the little I have had, has done 
 me so much good, that I most earnestly desire to 
 have more ; and I shall think it strange if you doubt 
 of my sincerity in this assertion. I have a strong 
 imagination that if I had a great fortune, I should do 
 much good with it ; and if I could handsomely come 
 to the possession of an affluent estate, I have so 
 much confidence in my own integrity, that I should 
 
40 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 not be afraid to trust myself with it. And while I am 
 wishing for a great plenty of money myself, I cannot 
 help wishing that my neighbours had more than they 
 now possess ; and in this respect, I hope I have the 
 happiness of coinciding with their own ideas. 
 
 THE FOX AND THE CROW. 
 
 The fox and the crow, 
 
 In prose I well know 
 Many good little girls can rehearse ; 
 
 Perhaps it will tell 
 
 Pretty nearly as well, 
 If we try the same fable in verse. 
 
 In a dairy, a crow 
 
 Having ventured to go, 
 Some food for her young ones to seek, 
 
 Flew up in the trees, 
 
 With a fine piece of cheese, 
 Which she joyfully held in her beak. 
 
 A fox who lived nigh. 
 
 To the tree saw her fly. 
 And to share in the prize made a vow ! 
 
 For having just dined, 
 
 He for cheese felt inclined, 
 So he went and sat under the bough. 
 
 She was cunning, he knew. 
 
 But so was he too, 
 And with flattery adapted his plan ; 
 
 For he knew if she'd speak, 
 
 It must fall from her beak. 
 So bowing politely, began : 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 41 
 
 " 'Tis a very fine day ;" 
 
 (Not a word did she say ;) 
 " The wind, I beheve, ma'am, is south ; 
 
 A fine harvest for pease :" 
 
 He then looked at the cheese, 
 But the crow didn't open her mouth. 
 
 Sly reynard, not tired, 
 
 Her plumage admired, 
 " How charming ! how briUiant its hue ! 
 
 The voice must be fine 
 
 Of a bird so divine. 
 Ah ! let me just hear it — pray do. 
 
 " Believe me, I long 
 
 To hear a sweet song." 
 The silly crow foolishly tries, 
 
 She scarce gave one squall. 
 
 When the cheese she let fall, 
 And the fox ran away with the prize. 
 
 THE BEDLAMITK 
 
 A patient in bedlam who did pretty well. 
 Was permitted sometimes to go out of his cell ; 
 One day, when they gave him his freedom, he spied 
 A dashing young spark, with a sword by his side. 
 The keeper suppressed the young soldier's alarm. 
 With — " be not afraid, sir, he'll do you no harm." 
 As soon as the gentleman came on the ground, 
 The bedlamite ran and surveyed him all round. 
 Ha ! ha ! he exclaimed, well, a mighty fine show ! 
 Shall I ask you one question ? T^Tiiat's that, said the 
 beau ; 
 
 4* 
 
4Z READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 Why, what's that long dangling cumbersome thing, 
 That you seem to be tied to, with ribbon and string? 
 Why, that is my sword ! And what's it to do ^ 
 Kill my enemies, surely, by running them through. 
 Kill your enemies ! sure, that's a thought I'd not own ; 
 They'll die of themselves, if you let them alone. 
 
 THE COLONISTS. 
 
 JVfr. Barlow, Come boys, I have a new play for 
 you. I will be the founder of a colony ; and you 
 shall be people of different trades and professions, 
 coming to offer yourselves to go with me. — What are 
 you, Arthur? 
 
 •5. I am a farmer, sir. 
 
 Mr, B, Very well ! Farming is the chief thing 
 we have to depend upon. The farmer puts the seed 
 into the earth, and takes care of it when it is grown 
 to the ripe com ; without the farmer we should have 
 no bread. But you must work very hard, there will 
 be trees to cut down, and roots to dig, and a great 
 deal of labour. 
 
 Jl. I shall be ready to do my part. 
 
 Mr, B. Well, then, I shall take you willins^ly, and 
 as many more such good fellows as you can find. 
 We shall have land enough; and you may fall to 
 work as soon as you please. Now for the next. 
 
 Beverly, I am a miller, sir. 
 
 Mr, B, A very useful trade ! our corn must be 
 ground, or it will do us little good, but what must we 
 do for a mill, my friend ? 
 
 B, I suppose we must make one. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 43 
 
 JSfr, B, Then we must take a millwright with us, 
 and carry millstones. Yi ho is next 1 
 
 Charles, I am a carpenter, sir. 
 
 Mr, B. The most necessary man that could offer. 
 We shall find you y/ork enough, never fear. There 
 will be houses to build, fences to make, and chairs 
 and tables besides. But all our timber is growing ; 
 we shall have hard work to fell it, to saw planks, and 
 to shape pests. 
 
 C I will do my best, sir. 
 
 J\lr. B, Then I engage you, but you had better 
 bring two or three able hands along with you. 
 
 Delville, I am a blacksmith. 
 
 J\Iv, B. An excellent companion for the carpenter. 
 We cannot do Vvithout either of you. You must 
 bring your great bellows, and anvil, and w^e will set 
 up a forge for you, as scon as we arrive. By tlie by, 
 we shall v/ant a mason for that. 
 
 Edward, I am one, sir. 
 
 J\lr, B, Though we may live in log houses at 
 first, we shall want brick work, or stone work, for 
 chimneys, hearths, and ovens, so there will be em- 
 ployment for a mason. Can you make bricks, and 
 burn hme ? 
 
 E, I will try what I can do, sir. 
 
 JSIr, B, No man can do more. I engage you. 
 Who is next? 
 
 Francis, I am a shoemaker. 
 
 JMr, B, Shoes we cannot do without, but I fear 
 we shall get no leather. 
 
 F. But I can dress skins, sir. 
 
 JMr. B, Can you? Then you are a clever fellow. 
 I will have you, though I give you double wages. 
 Georo;e, I am a tailor, sir. 
 Mr. B. We must not go naked ; so there will be 
 
44 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 work for the tailor. But you are not above mending, 
 I hope, for we must not mind wearing patched clothes 
 while we work in the woods. 
 
 G. I am not, sir. 
 
 JVEr. B. Then I engage you, too. 
 
 Henry. I am a silversmith, sir. 
 
 JVLr. B. Then my friend, you cannot go to a worse 
 place than a new country to set up your trade in. 
 
 jff. But I understand clock and watch making, 
 too. 
 
 I JWr. JB. We shall want to know how time goes, 
 but we cannot afford to employ you. At present, you 
 had better stay where you are. 
 
 Jasper. I am a barber and hair dresser. 
 
 JMr. B. What can we do with you 1 If you will 
 shave our men's rough beards once a week, and crop 
 their hair once a quarter, and be content to help the 
 carpenter the rest of the time, we will take you. But 
 you will have no ladies to curl, or gentlemen to pow- 
 der, I assure you. 
 
 Lewis. I am a doctor. 
 
 JMr. B. Then, sir, you are very welcome ; we 
 shall some of us be sick, we are likely to get cuts, 
 and bruises, and broken bones. You will be very 
 useful. We shall take you with pleasure. 
 
 JVEaurice. I am a lawyer, sir. 
 
 JMr. B. Sir, your most obedient servant. When 
 we are rich enough to go to law, we will let you 
 know. 
 
 Oliver. I am a schoolmaster. 
 
 JMr. B. That is a very respectable profession — as 
 soon as our children are old enough, we shall be glad 
 of your services. Though we are hard working men, 
 we do not mean to be ignorant. And who are you ? 
 
 Philip. A minister of the gospel. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 45 
 
 •Mr. B. We venerate you, sir, for the sake of your 
 office, which is the most honourable and important to 
 mankind. We should do well to support the institu- 
 tions of our holy religion, were we to regard our terri' 
 poral interests alone ; for we are assured, that godli- 
 ness has the promise of the life that now is, as well 
 as of that which is to come. But, if, indeed, the 
 maintenance of the sacred ministry, should be at- 
 tended with some pecuniary sacrifice, we would rea- 
 dily make it, for the honour of God and to secure our 
 ivell being in the coming world — recollecting the tre- 
 mendous import of our Saviour's question — What 
 shall it profit a man if he shall gain the xvhole world 
 and lose his ovm soul ? With sentiments of affection 
 and respect, therefore, sir, we welcome you to our 
 number. Will you go? 
 
 P. With all my heart, sir. 
 
 JV[r. B, Who comes here ? 
 
 Quentin. I am a soldier, sir ; will you have me ? 
 
 J\Ir. B, Y\e are peaceable people, and I hope we 
 shall not be obliged to fight. We will learn to de- 
 fend ourselves, if we have occasion. 
 
 Robert. I am a gentleman, su*. 
 
 Mr, B. A gentleman! and what good can you 
 do us ? 
 
 R. I mean to amuse myself. 
 
 JMr. B, Do you expect that we should pay for 
 your amusement ? 
 
 R. I expect to shoot game enough for my own 
 eating : you can give me a little bread and a few ve- 
 getables ; and the barber shall be my servant ? 
 
 JMr, B, The barber is much obliged to you. Pray, 
 sir, why should we do all this for you ? 
 
 B. Why, sir, that you may have the credit of 
 
46 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 saying, that you have one gentleman at least, in your 
 colony. 
 
 Mr. B. Ha, ha, ha ! A fine gentleman truly. Sir, 
 when we desire the honour of your company we will 
 send for you. 
 
 THE CHILD ON THE OCEAN. 
 
 Mother, how small a thing am I, 
 
 Rocked on the restless sea ! 
 I ask, when gazing on the sky, 
 
 Can God remember me ? 
 
 How solemnly the stars look out, 
 
 Upon the broad, blue deep ; 
 I wonder what the sun's about — 
 
 Has he gone away to sleep ? 
 
 How beautiful the moon to see 
 Walk proudly through the night — 
 
 Unshadowed by a single tree. 
 To mar her queenly light. 
 
 How briUiant is the track we mark, 
 
 As leaps our vessel on — 
 A rival light, that cheers the dark, 
 
 When stars and moon are gone ! 
 
 Mother, I am a feeble thing. 
 
 Mid scenes so vast and bold ; 
 *' My child, your thoughts can o'er them spring ; 
 
 Your mind they cannot hold." 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 47 
 
 THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE. 
 
 In days of yore, when time was young, 
 
 When birds conversed as well as sung, 
 
 When use of speech was not confined 
 
 Merely to brutes of human kind, 
 
 A forward hare, of swiftness vain. 
 
 The genius of the neighbouring plain, 
 
 W^ould oft deride the drudging crowd, 
 
 For geniuses are ever proud : 
 
 He'd boast, his flight 'twere vain to follow ; 
 
 For dog, and horse, he'd beat them hollow ; 
 
 Nay, if he put forth all his strength, 
 
 Outstrip his brethren half a length. 
 
 A tortoise heard his vain oration. 
 
 And vented thus his indignation : — 
 
 " Oh puss ! it bodes thee dire disgrace, 
 
 When I defy thee to the race. 
 
 Come, 'tis a match ; nay, no denial ; 
 
 I lay my shell upon the trial." 
 
 'Twas "Done!" and "Done!" "All fair!" "A 
 
 bet !" 
 Judges prepared, and distance set. 
 The scampering hare outstripped the wind ; 
 The creeping tortoise lagged behind. 
 And scarce had passed a single pole, 
 When puss had almost reached the goal. 
 " Friend tortoise," quoth the jeering hare, 
 " Your burden's more than you can bear ; 
 To help your speed, it were as well 
 That I should ease you of your shell : 
 Jog on a Httle faster, pr'ythee ; 
 I'll take a nap, and then be with thee." 
 
48 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 So said, so done, and safely, sure ; 
 For say, what conquest more secure ? 
 When'er he waked, (that's all that's in it,) 
 He could o'ertake him in a minute. 
 The tortoise heard his taunting jeer, 
 But still resolved to persevere ; 
 Still drawled along, as who should say, 
 " I'll win, like Fabius, by delay ;" 
 On to the goal securely crept. 
 While puss, unknowing, soundly slept. 
 The bets were won, the hare awoke, 
 When thus the victor-tortoise spoke : — 
 " Puss, though I own thy quicker parts, 
 Things are not alivays done by starts ; 
 You may deride my awkward pace. 
 But slow and steady wins the race.^^ 
 
 THE MISERIES OF WAR. 
 
 I HATE that drum's discordant sound, 
 Paradmg round, and round, and round ; 
 To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields. 
 And lures from cities and from fields : 
 To me it talks of ravaged plains. 
 And burning towns and ruined swains, 
 And mangled limbs, and dying groans, 
 And widow's tears and orphan's moans, 
 And all that misery's hand bestows, 
 To fill the cup of human woes. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 49 
 
 WHY AN APPLE FALLS. 
 
 Papa, said Lucy, I have been reading to-day that 
 Sir Isaac Newton Avas led to make some of his great 
 discoveries by seeing an apple fall from a tree. 
 What was there extraordinary"^ in that? 
 
 Papa, There was nothing extraordinary ; but it hap- 
 pened to catch his attention and set him a thinking. 
 
 Lucy, And what did he think about ? 
 
 P. He thought by what means the apple was 
 brought to the ground. 
 
 L, Why, I could have told him that — because the 
 stalk gave way, and there was nothing to keep it up. 
 
 P. And what then 1 
 
 L. Why then — it must fall, you know. 
 
 P. But why must it fall ] — that is the point. 
 
 L. Because it could not help it. 
 
 P. But why could it not help it ? 
 
 L. I don't know — that is an odd question. Be- 
 cause there was nothing to keep it up. 
 
 P. Suppose there was not — does it follow that it 
 must come to the ground ? 
 
 L. Yes, surely ! 
 
 P. Is an apple animate or inanimate ? 
 
 L, Inanimate to be sure. 
 
 P. And can inanimate things move of themselves ! 
 
 L, No — I think not — but the apple falls because 
 it is forced to fall. 
 
 P. Right ! Some force out of itself acts upon it ; 
 otherwise it would remain for ever v/here it w^as, not- 
 withstanding it were loosened from the tree. 
 
 L. Would it? 
 
 * ex-tror'-de-na-re. 
 5 
 
60 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 P. Undoubtedly ! — for there are only two ways in 
 which it could be moved ; by its own power of mo- 
 tion, or the power of somewhat else moving it. Now, 
 the first you acknowledge it has not ; the cause of 
 its motion must therefore be the second. And what 
 that is, was the subject of the philosopher's inquiry. 
 
 L. But every thing falls to the ground as well as 
 an apple, when there is nothing to keep it up. 
 
 P. True — there must therefore be an universal 
 cause of this tendency to fall. 
 
 L, And what is it ? 
 
 P. Why, if things out of the earth cannot move 
 themselves to it, there can be no other cause of their 
 coming together, than that the earth pulls them. 
 
 L. But the earth is no more animate than they are ; 
 so how can it pull ? 
 
 P. Well objected ! This will bring us to the point. 
 Sir Isaac Newton, after deep meditation, discovered 
 that there was a law in nature, called attraction^ by 
 virtue of which every particle of matter, that is, every 
 thing of which the world is composed, draws towards 
 it every other particle of matter, with a force propor- 
 tioned to its size and distance. 
 
 Lay two marbles on the table. They have a ten- 
 dency to come together, and if there were nothing 
 else in the world, they would come together ; but 
 they are also attracted by the table, by the ground^ 
 and by every thing besides in the room ; and these 
 different attractions pull against each other. 
 
 Now, the globe of the earth is a prodigious mass 
 of matter, to which nothing near it can bear any com- 
 parison. It draws, therefore, with mighty force every 
 thing within its reach, which is the cause of their fall- 
 ing ; and this is called the gravitation of bodies, or 
 what gives them weight. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 51 
 
 When I lift up any thing, I act contrary to this force, 
 for which reason it seems heavy to me ; and the hea- 
 vier, the more matter it contains, since that increases 
 the attraction of the earth for it. Do you understand 
 this? 
 
 L. I think I do. It is like a loadstone drawing 
 a needle. 
 
 P. Yes — that is an attraction, but of a particular 
 kind, only taking place betw^een the magnet and iron. 
 But gravitation, or the attraction of the earth, acts upon 
 every thing alike. 
 
 L. Then it is pulling you and me at this moment ? 
 
 P. It is. 
 
 L. But why do w^e not stick to the ground, then ? 
 
 P. Because as w^e are alive, we have a power of 
 self-motion, which can, to a certain degree, overcome 
 the attraction of the earth. But the reason you can- 
 not jump a mile high as well as a foot is this attrac- 
 tion, which brings you down again after the force of 
 your jump is spent. 
 
 L. I think then I begin to understand what I have 
 heard of people living on the other side of the world. 
 I believe they are called Antipodes^ who have their 
 feet turned towards ours, and their heads in the air. 
 I used to wonder how it could be that they did not 
 fall off; but I suppose the earth pulls them to it. 
 
 P. Very true. And whither should they fall? 
 What have they over their heads ? 
 
 L, I don't know — sky, I suppose. 
 
 P. They have. The earth is a vast ball, hung in 
 the air, and continually spinning round, and that is the 
 cause why the sun and stars seem to rise and set. 
 At noon we have the sun over our heads> when the 
 Antipodes have the stars over theirs ; and at mid- 
 night the stars are over our heads, and the sun over 
 
52 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 theirs. So whither should they fall to, more than we ? 
 — to the stars or the sun ? 
 
 L, But we are up, and they are down. 
 
 P. What is up, hwifrom the earth and towards the 
 sky 1 Their feet touch the earth and their heads point 
 to the sky as well as ours ; and we are under their 
 feet, as much as they are under ours. If a hole were 
 dug quite through the earth, what would you see 
 through it? 
 
 L, Sky, with the sun or stars : and now I see the 
 whole matter plainly. But pray, what supports the 
 earth in the air ? 
 
 P. Why, where should it go to ? 
 
 Z/. I don't know — I suppose where there was most 
 to draw it. 1 have heard that the sun is a great many 
 times bigger than the earth. Would it not go to that ? 
 
 P. You have thought very justly on the matter, I 
 perceive. But I shall take another opportunity of 
 showing you how this is, and why the earth does not 
 fall into the sun, of which 1 confess there seems to 
 be some danger. Meanwhile think how far the fall- 
 ing of an apple has earned us ! 
 
 L. To the Antipodes, and I know not where. 
 
 P. You may see from thence what use may be 
 made of the most common fact by a thinking mind. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Spring, where are you tarrying now? 
 
 Why are you so long unfelt ? 
 Winter went a month ago, 
 
 When the snow began to melt. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 63 
 
 I am coming little maiden, 
 With the pleasant sunshine laden ; 
 With the honey for the bee, 
 With the blossom for the tree, 
 With the flower and with the leaf; 
 Till I come the hour is brief. 
 
 I am coming, I am coming ! 
 Hark ! the little bee is humming ; 
 See, the lark is soaring high. 
 In the bright and sunny sky ; 
 And the gnats are on the wing — 
 Little maiden — now is spring ! 
 
 See the yellow catkins cover 
 All the slender willows over ; 
 And on mossy banks so green 
 Star-like primroses are seen ; 
 And their clustering leaves below, 
 W^hite and purple violets blow. 
 
 Hark the little lambs are bleating ; 
 And the cawing rooks are meeting 
 In the elms, a noisy crowd ; 
 And all birds are singing loud ; 
 And the fast white butterfly 
 In the sun goes flitting by. 
 
 Little maiden, look around thee ! 
 Green and flow'ry fields surround thee, 
 Every little stream is bright ; 
 * All the orchard trees are white ; 
 And each small and weaving shoot 
 Has for thee sweet flowers or fruit. 
 6* 
 
54 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 Turn thy eyes to earth and heaven ! 
 God for thee the spring has given ; 
 Taught the birds their melodies 
 Clothed the earth and cleared the skies ; 
 For thy pleasure or thy food — 
 Pour thy soul in gratitude ! 
 So may'st thou 'mid blessings dwell. 
 Little maiden, fare thee well ! 
 
 THE DOG AND HIS SHADOW. 
 
 A HUNGRY Dog some meat did seize, 
 And then his appetite to please, 
 His neighbour dogs forsook ; 
 In fear for his delightful prize, 
 He looked around with eager eyes, 
 And ran to cross the brook. 
 
 To cross the brook, a single plank 
 Was simply laid from bank to bank ; 
 
 And, as he passed alone, 
 He saw his shadow at his feet. 
 Which seemed another dog, with meat 
 
 Much better than his own. 
 
 Ah, ha ! thought he, as no one spies, 
 If I could make this piece my prize, 
 
 I should be double winner : 
 So made a snatch ; when, sad to tell ! 
 His own piece in the water fell, 
 
 And thus he lost his dinner. 
 
 The fable which above you see, 
 To greedy folks must useful be, 
 And suit those to a tittle, 
 
REA.DER AND SPEAKER. 55 
 
 Who long for what they can't obtain : 
 Tis sure far wiser to remain 
 Contented with a httle. 
 
 JUDAH'S ADDRESS TO JOSEPH. 
 
 Oh, my lord, let thy servant, I pray thee, speak a 
 word in my lord's ears, and let not thine anger burn 
 against thy servant : for thou art even as Pharaoh. 
 My lord asked his servants, saying, have ye a father, 
 or a brother ? And we said unto my lord, we have a 
 father, an old man, and a child of his old age, a little 
 one : and his brother is dead, and he alone is left of 
 his mother, and his father loveth him. And thou 
 saidst unto thy servants, bring him down unto me, 
 that I may set mine eyes upon him. And we said 
 unto my lord, the lad cannot leave his father : for 
 if he should leave his father, his father would die. 
 And thou saidst unto thy servants, except your 
 youngest brother come down with you, ye shall 
 see my face no more. And it came to pass, when 
 we came up unto thy servant my father, we told 
 him the words of my lord. And our father said, 
 go again, and buy us a little food. And we said, we 
 cannot go down : if our youngest brother be with 
 us, then will we go down ; for we may not see the 
 man's face, except our youngest brother be with us. 
 And thy servant my father said unto us, ye know that 
 my wife bare me two sons. And the one went out 
 from me, and I said, surely he is torn in pieces ; and 
 I saw him not since. And if ye take this also from 
 me, and mischief befall him, ye shall bring down my 
 gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. Now therefore, 
 
56 READER AND SPEAKER. | 
 
 when I come to thy servant my father, and the lad be 1 
 not with us ; (seeing that his life is bound up in the 
 lad's life ;) it shall come to pass, when he seeth that 
 the lad is not with us, that he will die : and thy ser- 
 vants shall bring down the gray hairs of thy servant 
 our father with sorrow to the grave. For thy servant 
 became surety for the lad unto my father, saying, if 
 I bring him not unto thee, then I shall bear the blame 
 to my father for ever. Now therefore, I pray thee, 
 let thy servant abide instead of the lad a bondman to 
 my lord ; and let the lad go up with his brethren. 
 For how shall I go up to my father, and the lad be 
 not with me ? Lest peradventure I see the evil that 
 shall come on my father. 
 
 THE KITE ; OR, PRIDE MUST HAVE A FALL. 
 
 Once on a time a paper kite, 
 Was mounted to a wondrous height, 
 Where, giddy with its elevation. 
 It thus expressed self-admiration : 
 " See how yon crowds of gazing people 
 Admire my flight above the steeple ; 
 How would they wonder if they knew 
 All that a kite like me can do ! 
 
 " Were I but free, I'd take a flight, 
 And pierce the clouds beyond their sight ; 
 But, ah ! Hke a poor prisoner bound, 
 My string confines me near the ground ; 
 I'd brave the eagle's towering wing, 
 Might I but fly without a string.^^ 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 57 
 
 It tugged and pulled, while thus it spoke, 
 To break the string ; at last it broke. 
 
 Deprived at once of all its stay, 
 
 In vain it tried to soai* away ; 
 
 Unable its otmi weight to bear, 
 
 It fluttered downward through the air ; 
 
 Unable its own coiu*se to guide, 
 
 The winds soon plunged it in the tide, 
 
 Ah ! foolish kite, thou had'st no wing, 
 
 How could' st thou fly without a string ? 
 
 When you are prone to build a Babel, 
 Recall to mind this Httie fable. 
 
 THE FLY AND THE SPIDER. 
 «* Will you walk into my parlour ?' said a spider to a 
 
 fly; 
 
 "'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did 
 
 spy. 
 The way into my parlour is up a winding stair, 
 And I have many pretty things to show when you are 
 
 there." 
 " Oh no, no !" said the little fly, " to ask me is in 
 
 vain, 
 For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come 
 
 down again." 
 
 "I'm sure you must be weary, with soai'ing up so 
 
 high, 
 Will you rest upon my little bed ?" said the spider to 
 
 the fly. 
 
68 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 " There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets 
 
 are fine and thin ; 
 And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in.'* 
 " Oh no, no !" said the little fly, " for I've often heard 
 
 it said. 
 They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your 
 
 bed !" 
 
 Said the cunning spider to the fly, " Dear friend, what 
 
 shall I do, 
 To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you t 
 I have, within my pantry, good store of all that's nice ; 
 I'm sure you're very welcome — will you please to take 
 
 a slice 1" 
 " Oh no, no !" said the little fly, " kind sir, that can'- , 
 
 not be, 
 IVe heard what's in your pantiy, and I do not wish 
 
 to see." 
 
 "Sweet creature!" said the spider, "you're witty 
 
 and you're wise, 
 How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant 
 
 are your eyes ! 
 I have a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf. 
 If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold 
 
 yourself." 
 " I thank you, gentle sir," she said, " for what you're 
 
 pleased to say, 
 And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another 
 
 day." 
 
 The spider turned him round about, and went into 
 
 his den. 
 For well he knew the silly fly would soon come back 
 
 again: 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 69 
 
 So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner, sly, 
 
 And set his table ready, to dine upon the fly. 
 
 Then he went out to his door again, and merrily did 
 
 sing, 
 " Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and 
 
 silver wing ; 
 Tour robes are green and purple — there's a crest upon 
 
 your head ; 
 Your eyes are hke the diamond bright, but mine are 
 
 dull as lead." 
 
 Alas, alas ! how very soon this silly Uttle fly, 
 
 Hearing his wily, flattering -words, came slowly flit- 
 ting by ; 
 
 With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and 
 nearer drew, 
 
 Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and 
 purple hue ; — 
 
 Thinking only of her crested head — poor foolish 
 thing ! — At last 
 
 Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her 
 fast. 
 
 He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal 
 
 den, 
 Within his little parlour — but she ne'er came out 
 
 again ! 
 — And now, dear little children, who may this story 
 
 read. 
 To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give 
 
 heed: 
 Unto an evil counsellor, close heart, and ear, and 
 
 eye, 
 And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and 
 
 the Fly. 
 
60 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 THINGS BY THEIR RIGHT NAMES. 
 
 Charles, Frank, you grow very lazy. — Last win- 
 ter you used to tell me stories, and now you never 
 tell me any; and I am quite rea,dy to hear you. 
 Pray, dear Frank, let me have a pretty one. 
 
 Frank. With all my heart — what shall it be I 
 
 C. A bloody murder. 
 
 F, A bloody murder ! Well then — Once upon a 
 time, some men, dressed all alike 
 
 C With black crapes over their faces. 
 
 F, No ; they had steel caps on — having crossed 
 a dark plain, wound cautiously along the skirts of a 
 deep wood 
 
 C, They were ill-looking fellows I dare say. 
 
 F. I cannot say so ; on the contrary, they were 
 tall men — leaving, on their right hand, an old ruined 
 meeting-house on the hill. 
 
 C. At midnight, just as the clock struck twelve^ 
 was it not ? 
 
 jP. No, really ; it was on a fine balmy summer's 
 morning — and moved forwards, one behind ano- 
 ther 
 
 C As still as death, creeping along under the 
 fences. 
 
 F. On the contrary, they walked remarkably up- 
 right ; and so far from endeavouring to be hushed 
 and still, they made a loud noise as they came along, 
 with several sorts of instruments. 
 
 C But, Frank, they would be found out imme- 
 diately. 
 
 F. They did not seem to wish to conceal them- 
 selves : on the contrary, they gloried in what they 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 61 
 
 were about. They moved forwards, I say, to where 
 stood a neat, pretty town, which they set on fire 
 
 C. Set a to^vTi on fire ? Wicked wretches ! 
 
 F. And while it was burning, they murdered — 
 twenty thousand men. 
 
 C. O fie ! You don't intend I shall believe all this. 
 I thought all along you were making up a tale, as 
 you often do ; but you shall not catch me this time, 
 ^hat ! they lay still, I suppose, and let these fellows 
 cut their throats 1 
 
 F. No, truly, they resisted as long as they could. 
 
 C. How should these men kill twenty thousand 
 people, pray ? 
 
 F. Why not ? the murderers were thirty thousand. 
 
 C. 0, now I have found you out ! You mean a 
 
 BATTLE. 
 
 F. Indeed I do. I do not know of any murders 
 half so bloody. 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY'S BALL, AND THE GRASS- 
 HOPPER'S FEAST. 
 
 Come, take up your hats, and away let us haste 
 To the Butterfly's ball and the Grasshopper's feast : 
 The trumpeter Gad-fly has summoned the crew, 
 And the revels are now only waiting for you ! 
 
 On the smooth shaven grass, by the side of a wood, 
 Beneath a broad oak, which for ages had stood, 
 See the children of earth, and the tenants of air. 
 To an evening's amusement together repair ; 
 
 And there came the Beetle, so bhnd and so black, 
 Who carried the Emmet, his friend, on his back ; 
 6 
 
62 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 And there came the Gnat, and the Dragon-fly too, 
 And all their relations, green, orange, and blue. 
 
 And there came the Moth, with her plumage of down, 
 And the Hornet, with jacket of yellow and brown, 
 Who with him the Wasp, his companion, did bring, 
 But they promised that evening to lay by their sting. 
 
 Then the sly little Dormouse peeped out of his hole, 
 And led to the feast his blind cousin, the Mole ; 
 And the Snail, with her horns peeping out of her shell, 
 Came fatigued with the distance — the length of an ell. 
 
 A mushroom the table, and on it was spread 
 A water-dock leaf, which their table-cloth made ; 
 The viands were various, to each of their taste, 
 And the Bee brought the honey to sweeten the feast. 
 
 With steps most majestic, the Snail did advance, 
 And promised the gazers a minuet to dance ; 
 But they all laughed so loud that he drew in his head 
 And went in his own little chamber to bed. 
 
 Then as the evening gave way to the shadows of 
 
 night, 
 Their watchman, the Glow-worm, came out with his 
 
 light; 
 So home let us hasten, while yet we can see ; 
 For no watchman is waiting for you or for me. 
 
 ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, KILLING A LIT- 
 TLE BIRD. 
 
 A Spaniel, Beau, that fares like you, 
 Well fed, and at his ease, 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 63 
 
 Should mser be than to pursue 
 Each trifle that he sees. 
 
 But you have killed a tiny bird, 
 
 Which flew not till to-day, 
 Against my orders, whom you heard 
 
 Forbidding you the prey. 
 
 Nor did you kill that yon might eat 
 
 And ease a doggish pain. 
 For him, though chased with furious heat, 
 
 You lefl where he was slain. 
 
 Nor was he of the thievish sort, 
 
 Or one whom blood allures. 
 But innocent was all his sport. 
 
 Whom you have torn for yours. 
 
 My dog ! what remedy remains, 
 
 Since, teach you all I can, 
 I see you, after all my pains, 
 
 So much resemble Man ? 
 
 BEAU'S REPLY. 
 
 Sir, when I flew to seize the bird 
 
 In spite of your command, 
 A louder voice than yours I heard. 
 
 And harder to mthstand. 
 
 You cried — forbear — but in my breast 
 A mightier cried — proceed — 
 
 'Twas nature, Sir, whose strong behest 
 ImpelPd me to the deed. 
 
64 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 Yet much as Nature I respect, 
 I ventured once to break 
 
 (As you, perhaps, may recollect,) 
 Her precept, for your sake : 
 
 And when your linnet, on a day, 
 Passing his prison door. 
 
 Had flutter'd all his strength away, 
 And panting pressed the floor ; 
 
 Well knowing him a sacred thing, 
 Not destin'd to my tooth, 
 
 I only kissed his ruffled wing, 
 And lick'd his feathers smooth. 
 
 Let my obedience then^ excuse 
 
 My disobedience now ! 
 Nor some reproof yourself refuse 
 
 From your aggrieved Bow-wow ! 
 
 If killing birds be such a crime, 
 (Whicb I can hardly see,) 
 
 What think you, Sir, of killing time 
 With verse addressed to me. 
 
 BE KIND TO YOUR SISTER. 
 
 1. One morning, there was a little girl sitting on 
 the door-steps of a pleasant cottage near the common. 
 She was thin and pale. Her head was resting upon 
 her slender hand. There was a touching sadness in 
 her sweet face, which the dull, heavy expression 
 about her jet-black eyes, did not destroy. What 
 was she thinking of, sitting thus alone % 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 65 
 
 2. Perhaps of that pretty flower-garden, which she 
 had cultivated mth so much taste and care ; — those^ 
 bhie morning-glories, and bright yellow nasturtions, 
 which she had taught to cKmb to her window ; — or 
 those four-o'clocks, which she had planted in so 
 straight a hne, under the little fence which encircled 
 the flower-bed. She might have been thinking of 
 these ; — perhaps wondering whether she should see 
 these flowers, which she had been cultivating %vith so 
 much care, open their pretty leaves to another sum- 
 mer's sun. 
 
 3. Her name was Helen. For several weeks she 
 had seemed to be drooping, without any particular 
 disease ; inconstant in her attendance at school, and 
 losing gradually her interests in all her former em- 
 ployments. Helen had one sister, Clara, a little 
 older than herself, and several brothers. While she 
 was most indisposed they had expressed a great deal 
 of sympathy, and tried to amuse l:ier, and had wil- 
 lingly given up their own enjoyments to promote 
 hers. 
 
 4. But cliildren will too often be selfish ; and 
 when Helen, for some days, appeared better and able 
 to run pcbout and amuse herself, they would forget 
 how peculiarly sensitive she had become, and the 
 cross w^ords which they occasionally spoke, and the 
 neglect with which they sometimes treated her, 
 wounded her feelings, and caused her to shed many 
 bitter tears, as she lay awake on her httle cot at 
 night. I 
 
 5. This day she seemed better, and it was some- 
 thing her sister had said to her just before, which 
 gave that expression of sadness to her face, as she 
 sat at the door of the cottage. Clara soon came to 
 her again. 
 
 6* 
 
66 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 " Helen, mother says you must go to school to- 
 day ; so get up, com.e along and get ready, and not 
 be moping there any longer." 
 
 " Did mamma say so V^ inquired Helen. 
 
 " Yes, she did. You are well enough I know, for 
 you always say you are sick at school-time. Get 
 your bonnet, for I shan't wait." 
 
 6. Helen got up slowly, and wiping with her apron 
 the tear which had started in her eye, she made her 
 preparations to obey her mother's command. Now 
 Clara had a very irritable disposition. She could not 
 bear to have Helen receive any more attention or 
 sympathy than herself; and unless she were really 
 so sick as to excite her fears, she never would allow 
 her to be sick at all. She was determined not to go 
 to school alone this morning, and had persuaded her 
 mother to make her sister go with her. 
 
 7. In a few moments they were both ready : but 
 now a difficulty presented itself. The distance to 
 school was so great, that they seldom returned at 
 noon. Their dinner had been packed for them, in a 
 large basket which stood in the entry. Upon whom, 
 now, should the task of carrying this devolve ? 
 
 "Helen," said Clara, "I've carried the basket 
 every day for a week ; it's your turn now." 
 
 " But it is twice as heavy now, Clara. I can but 
 just Hft it." 
 
 8. " Well," answered Clara, " I don't care. I have 
 got my Geography and Atlas to carry; so take 
 it up, and come along. Miss Fudge. I shan't touch 
 it." 
 
 Helen took up the basket without saying another 
 word, though it required all her little strength, and 
 walked slowly behind her sister. She tried hard to 
 keep from crying, but the tears would come as fast 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 67 
 
 as she wiped them off. They walked on thus in si- 
 lence for about a quarter of an hour. 
 
 9. Clara felt too much ill-humour to take the least 
 notice of her sister. She knew she had done wTong, 
 and feit uneasy, but was yet too proud to give up, 
 and was determined to " hold out ;" excusing herself 
 by thinking, — " Well, Helen is always saying she is 
 sick, and making a great fuss. It's just good enough 
 for her.'- When she had reached the half-way stone, 
 she had half a mind not to let her rest there, as usual ; 
 but the habit was too strong, to be easily broken, 
 and she sat down sullenly to wait for Helen to come up. 
 
 10. This was a spot, which few could have passed 
 unnoticed. The broad flat stone was shaded by a 
 beautiful weeping willow, whose branches hung so 
 low, that even little Maria could reach them by stand- 
 ing on tiptoe ; — and around the trunk of this tree, 
 ran a little brook, which came up just to this rustic 
 seat, and then turned off into the next m.eadow. It 
 would seem as if the beauty of this place must have 
 charmed away the evil spirit, v/hich was raging in 
 Clara's breast ; — but no ! the cool shade brought no 
 refreshment to those evil passions, and the little rip- 
 ples which sparkled in the sunbeam, did not, for one 
 moment, divert her attention from her own cross feel- 
 ings. 
 
 11. As I said before, she sat sullenly, till Helen 
 came up, and then began to scold her for being so 
 slow. 
 
 " Why don't you come along faster, Helen ? you 
 will be late to school, and I don't care if you are : 
 you deserve a good scolding for acting so." 
 
 " Why^ Clara, I am very tiredj my head does ach, 
 and this basket is very heavy. I do tliink you ought 
 to carry it the rest of the way." 
 
68 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 12. " Do give it to me then," said Clara ; and 
 snatched it from her with such violence that the cover i 
 came off. The apples rolled out and fell into the 
 water, the gingerbread followed, and the pie rolled 
 into the dirt. It has been truly said, " Anger is a 
 short madness ;" for how little reason have those 
 who indulge in it. Helen was not to blame for the 
 accident, but Clara did not stop to think of this. 
 Vexed at having thus lost her dinner, she turned and 
 gave her little sister a push, and then walked on as 
 rapidly as possible. ! could she have foreseen the 
 consequences of this rash act — could she have known 
 the bitter anguish, which it would afterwards cause 
 her, worlds would not have tempted her to do it ; but 
 Clara ivas angry. 
 
 13. Helen was seated just on the edge of the stone, 
 and she fell into the water. It was not deep. She 
 had waded there many a day with her shoes and 
 stockings off, and she easily got out again, but it 
 frightened her very much, and took way all her 
 strength. She could not even call to her sister, or 
 cry. A strange feeling came over her, such as she 
 had never had before. She laid her head on the 
 stone, closed her eyes, and thought she was going to 
 die, and she wished her mother was there. Then she 
 seemed to sleep for a few moments ; but by and by 
 she felt better, and, getting up, she took her empty 
 basket and walked on, as fast as she was able, to- 
 wards school. 
 
 14. It was nearly half done when she arrived there, 
 and as she entered the room, all noticed her pale face 
 and wet dress. She took her seat, and placing her 
 book before her, leaned her aching head upon her 
 hand, and attempted to study : but in vain ; she could 
 not fix her attention at all. The strange feeling be^* 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 69 
 
 gan to come over her once more ; the letters all min- 
 gled together ; the room grew dark ; the shrill voice 
 of the little child screaming its A B C in front of her 
 desk, grew fainter and fainter ; her head sunk upon 
 her book, and she fell to the floor. 
 
 15. Fainting was so unusual in this school, that 
 all was instantly confusion, and it was some minutes 
 before the teacher could restore order. Helen was 
 brought to the air ; two of her companions were des- 
 patched for water ; and none were allowed to remain 
 near, excepting Clara, who stood by, trembling from 
 head to foot, and almost as white as the insensible 
 object before her. ! what a moment of anguish 
 was this, — deep, bitter anguish. Her anger melted 
 away at once, and she would almost have sacriiiced 
 her own life, to have recalled the events of the morn- 
 ing. That was impossible. 
 
 16. The future, however, was still before her, and 
 she detei^nined never again to indulge her temper, 
 or be unkind to any one. If Helen only recovered, 
 the future should be spent in atoning for her past un- 
 kindness. It seemed for a short time, indeed, as if 
 she would be called upon to fulfil these promises. 
 Helen gradually grev/ better, and in about an hour 
 was apparently as well as usual. It was judged best, 
 however, for her to return home, and a farmer, who 
 happened to pass in a new gig, very kindly offered to 
 take her. 
 
 17. Clara could not play with the girls as usual, — 
 she could not study. Her heart v/as full, and she 
 was very impatient to be once more by her sister's 
 side. The recesses were spent in collecting pictures, 
 notes, and little books ; — and the long study-hours 
 were employed in printing stories. In this way she 
 attempted to quiet that still small voice, whose secret 
 
70 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 whispers were destroying all her happiness. how i 
 eagerly she watched the sun in his slow progress 
 round the school-house ; and when at last he threw 
 his slanting beams through the west window, shej 
 was the first to obey the joyful signal ; and books, 
 papers, pen, and ink, instantly disappeared from her 
 desk. 
 
 18. Clara did not linger on her way home. She 
 even passed the ' half-way stone ' with no other no- 
 tice than a deep sigh. She hurried to her sister's ' 
 bedside, impatient to show her the curiosities she 
 had collected, and to make up, by every little atten- 
 tion, for her unkindness. Helen was asleep. Her : 
 face was no longer pale, but flushed with a burning 
 fever. Her Httle hands were hot, and as she tossed 
 restlessly about on her pillow, she would mutter to 
 herself, — sometimes calling on her sister, to ' stop, 
 stop,' and then again begging her not to throw her to 
 the fishes. >. 
 
 19. Clara watched long, in agony, for her to wake. 
 This she did at last ; but it brought no relief to the 
 distressed sister and friends. She did not know them, 
 and continued to talk incoherently about the events 
 of the morning. It was too much for Clara to bear. 
 She retired to her own little room, and lonely bed, 
 and wept till she could weep no more. 
 
 20. By the first dawn of light, she was at her sis- 
 ter's bedside ; but there was no alteration. For 
 three days, Helen continued in this state. I would 
 not, if I could, describe the agony of Clara, as she 
 heard herself thus called upon, and deservedly re- 
 proached by the dear sufferer. Her punishment was, 
 indeed, greater than she could bear. 
 
 21. At the close of the third day, Helen gave 
 signs of returning consciousness,- — inquired if the 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 71 
 
 cold water which she drank would injure her, — re- 
 cognised her mother, and very anxiously called for 
 Clara. She had just stepped out, and was immedi- 
 ately told of this. how joyful was the summons ! 
 She hastened to her sister, who, as she approached, 
 looked up and smiled. The feverish flush from her 
 cheek was gone, — she was almost deadly pale. By 
 her own request her head had been raised upon two 
 or three pillows, and her little emaciated hands were 
 folded over the white coverlet. 
 
 22. Clara was entirely overcome, she could only 
 weep ; and, as she stooped to kiss her sister's white ^ 
 hps, the child threw her arms around her neck, and 
 drew her still nearer. It was a long embrace ; — then 
 her arms moved convulsively, and fell motionless by 
 her side ; — there were a few struggles, — she gasped 
 once or twice, — and little Helen never breathed 
 again. 
 
 23. Days and weeks, and months rolled on. Time 
 had somewhat healed the wound, which grief for the 
 loss of an only sister had made ; but it had not power 
 to remove from Clara's heart the remembrance of her 
 former uiikindness. It poisoned many an hour. She 
 ne>^er took her Kttle basket of dinner, now so light, or 
 in her soUtary walk to school passed the ' half-way 
 stone,' without a deep sigh, and often a tear of bitter 
 regret. 
 
 Children who are what Clara ims^ go now and be 
 what Clara is^ — mild,— amiable,- — obliging and plea- 
 sant to all. 
 
73 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 THE DEAD MOTHER. 
 
 F. Touch not thy mother, boy — Thou canst not 
 wake her. 
 
 C Why, father? She still wakens at this hour* 
 
 F. Your mother's dead, my child. 
 
 C. And what is dead ? 
 If she be dead, why then 'tis only sleeping, 
 For I am sure she sleeps. Come, mother, — rise — 
 Her hand is very cold ! 
 
 F. Her heart is cold. 
 Her limbs are bloodless, would that mine were so ! 
 
 C If she would waken, she should soon be warm. 
 Why is she wrapt in this thin sheet ? If I, 
 This winter morning, were not covered better, 
 I should be cold like her. 
 
 F. No — not like her : 
 The fire might warm you^ or thick clothes — but 
 
 her — 
 Nothing can warm again ! 
 
 C If I could wake her, 
 She would smile on me, as she always does, 
 And kiss me. Mother ! you have slept too long — 
 Her face is pale — and it would frighten me, 
 But that 1 know she loVes me. 
 
 F. Come, my child. 
 
 C Once, when I sat upon her lap, I felt 
 A beating at her side, and then she said 
 It was her heart that beat, and bade me feel 
 For my own heart, and they both beat alike. 
 Only mine was the quickest — And I feel 
 My own heart yet — but her's — I cannot feel — 
 
 jP. Child ! child ! — you drive me mad — Come 
 hence, I say. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER, 73 
 
 C. Nay, father, be not angry ! let me stay here 
 Till my mother wakens. 
 
 F. I have told you, 
 Your mother cannot wake — not in this world— 
 But in another she will wake for us. 
 When we have slept like her, then we shall see hen 
 
 C Would it were night then ! 
 
 F, No, unhappy child ! 
 Full many a night shall pass, ere thou canst sleep 
 That last, long sleep. — Thy father soon shall sleep 
 
 it; 
 Then wilt thou be deserted upon earth ; 
 None will regard thee ; thou wilt soon forget 
 That thou hadst natural ties, — an orphan lone 
 Abandoned to the wiles of wicked men. 
 
 C. Father! Father! 
 Why do you look so terribly upon me, 
 You will not hurt me ? 
 
 F, Hurt thee, darling ? no ! 
 Has sorrow's violence so much of anger, 
 That it should fright my boy ? Come, dearest, come. 
 . C. You are not angry then 1 
 
 F. Too well I love you. 
 
 C All you have said I cannot now remember, 
 Nor what is meant — you terrify me so. 
 ' But tliis I know, you told me, — I must sleep 
 Before my mother wakens — so, to-morrow — 
 1 Oh father ! that to-morrow were but come ! 
 
 THE ACORN AND THE PUMPKIN. 
 
 Two gardeners once beneath an oak 
 
 Lay down to rest, when Jack thus spoke — 
 
 7 
 
74 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 *'' You must confess, dear Will, that Nature 
 Is but a blund'riag kind of creature ; 
 And I — nay, why that look of terror ? 
 Could teach her how to mend her error." 
 
 " Your talk," quoth Will, " is bold and odd. 
 What you call Nature, I call God." 
 *' Well, call him by what name you will," 
 Quoth Jack, " he manages but ill ; 
 Nay, from the very tree we're under, 
 I'll prove that Providence can blunder." 
 
 Quoth Will, " Through thick and thin you dash : 
 
 I shudder, Jack, at words so rash ; 
 
 I trust to what the Scriptures tell. 
 
 He hath done alivavs all things well." — 
 
 Quoth Jack, " I'm lately grown a wit, 
 
 And think all good a luchj hit. 
 
 To prove that Providence can err, 
 
 Not words, but /ac/5, the truth aver. 
 
 To this vast oak lift up thine eyes, 
 Then view that acorn's paltry size ; 
 How foolish on a tree so tall. 
 To place that tiny cup and ball. 
 Now look again, yon pumpkin see. 
 It weighs two pounds at least, nay, three ; 
 Yet this large fruit, where is it found ? 
 Why, meanly trailing on the ground. 
 
 Had Providence asked my advice, 
 I would have changed it in a trice ; 
 I would have said at Nature's birth, 
 Let acorns creep upon the earth ; 
 But let the pumpkin, vast and round. 
 On the oak's lofty boughs be found." 
 
READER AND SPEAKER, 76 
 
 He said — and as he rashly spoke, 
 
 Lo ! from the branches of the oak, 
 
 A wind which suddenly arose, 
 
 Beat showers of acorns on his nose : 
 
 " Oh ! oh !" quoth Jack, " I'm wrong I see, 
 
 And God is wiser far than me. 
 
 For did a shower of pumpkins large, 
 Thus on my naked face discharge, 
 I had been bruised and blinded, quite. 
 What heav'n appoints I find is right ; 
 Whene'er I'm tempted to rebel, 
 I'll think how light the acorns fell ; 
 Whereas on oaks had pumpkins hung, 
 My broken skull had stopped my tongue." 
 
 THE PRISONER. 
 
 I APPROACHED his dungcon — I then looked through 
 the twilight of his grated door. I beheld his body 
 half wasted away with long expectation and confine- 
 ment, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it 
 was which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking 
 nearer, I saw him pale and feverish : in thirty years 
 the western breeze had not once fanned his blood — 
 he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time — nor 
 had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through 
 his lattice. 
 
 He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, 
 in the furthest corner of his dungeon, which was al- 
 ternately his chair and bed ; a little calendar of small 
 sticks was laid at the head, notched all over with the 
 dismal days and nights he had passed there — he had 
 
76 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 one of these little sticks in his hand, and with a rusty j 
 nail he was etching another day of misery to add to j 
 the heap. As I darkened the httle light he had, he i 
 lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it 
 down — shook his head, and went on with his work of 
 affliction. I heard his chains upon his le^s, as he j 
 turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle. ; 
 He gave a deep sigh — I saw the iron enter into his 
 soul — I burst into tears — I could sustain the sight no 
 longer. 
 
 THE LITTLE FISH WHO WOULD NOT DO AST: 
 HE WAS BID. 
 
 Dear mother, said a little fish, 
 
 Pray is not that a fly ? 
 I'm very hungry, and I wish 
 
 You'd let me go and try. 
 
 Sweet innocent, the mother cried, 
 While starting from her nook. 
 
 That horrid fly is put to hide 
 The sharpness of the hook. 
 
 When, as I've heard, this little trout 
 
 Was young and foolish too, 
 And so he thought he'd venture out, 
 
 And see if it was true. 
 
 And now about the hook he played. 
 
 With many a longing look, 
 And, dear me, to himself he said, 
 
 I'm sure that's not a hook. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 77 
 
 I can but give one little pluck, 
 
 Let's see, and so I will — 
 So on he went, and lo ! it stuck 
 
 Quite through his Httle gill ! 
 
 And, as he faint and fainter grew, 
 
 With hollow voice he cried — 
 Dear mother, if Pd minded you, 
 
 I need not now have died. 
 
 WE ARE SEVErT. 
 -A simple child, 
 
 That lightly draws its breath, 
 And feels its life in every limb, 
 What should it know of death? 
 
 I met a little cottage girl, 
 She was eight years old, she said ; 
 Her hair was thick with many a curl 
 That clustered round her head. 
 
 " Sisters and brothers, little maid. 
 How many may you be ?' 
 *' How many ? Seven in all," she said 
 And wondering, looked at me. 
 
 ** And where are they ? I pray you tell,'' 
 She answered, " Seven are we ; 
 And two of us at Conway dwell. 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 
 Two of us in the churchyard lie. 
 My sister and my brother, 
 
 7* 
 
78 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 And, in the churchyard cottage, I 
 Dwell near them with my mother." 
 
 " You say that two at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea ; 
 Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell, 
 Sweet child, how this may be 1" 
 
 Then did the little maid reply, 
 *' Seven boys and girls are we ; 
 Two of us in the churchyard lie. 
 Beneath the churchyard tree." 
 
 ** You run about, my little maid. 
 Your limbs they are alive ; 
 If two are in the churchyard Igiid, 
 Then ye are only five." 
 
 ** Their graves are green, they may be seen,"^ 
 The little girl repHed ; ■ 
 
 *' Twelve steps or more, from mother's door, 
 And they are side by side. 
 
 My stockings there I often knit, 
 My 'kerchief there I hem ; 
 And there upon the ground I sit. 
 And sit and sing to them. 
 
 And often after sunset, sir, 
 When it is light and fair, 
 I take my little porringer. 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
 The first that died was little Jane ; 
 In bed she moaning lay, 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 7§ 
 
 Till God released her of her pain, 
 And then she went away. 
 
 So in the churchyard she was laid ; 
 And all the summer day, 
 Together round her grave we played, 
 My brother John and I. 
 
 And when the ground was white with snow, 
 And I could run and slide, 
 My brother John was forced to go, 
 And he lies by her side." 
 
 *' How many are you then," said I, 
 " If they two are in heaven 1" 
 The little maid again replied, 
 " Oh, master, we are seven!" 
 
 " But they are dead ; those two are deacH 
 Theii* spirits are in heaven 1" — 
 'Twas throwing words away ; for still, 
 The little maid would have her will. 
 And said, " Nay, we are seven !" 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM. 
 
 A NIGHTINGALE that all day long 
 Had cheered the village with liis song ; 
 Nor yet at eve his note suspended, 
 Nor yet when eventide was ended, 
 Began to feel, as well he might, 
 The keen demands of appetite ; 
 T\hen, looldng eagerly around. 
 He spied far off, upon the ground, 
 
80 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 A something shining in the dark, 
 And knew the glow-worm by his spark ; 
 So, stooping down from hawthorn top, 
 He thought to put him in his crop. 
 The worm, aware of his intent, 
 Harangued him thus, right eloquent — 
 Did you admire my lamp, quoth he, 
 As much as I your minstrelsy, 
 Tou would abhor to do me wrong, 
 As much as I to spoil your song : 
 For 'twas the self-same power divine 
 Taught you to sing and me to shine ; 
 That you with music, I with light. 
 Might beautify and cheer the night. 
 The sono^ster heard his short oration, 
 And warbling out his approbation, 
 "eleased him, as my story tells, 
 ^nd found a supper somewhere else. 
 
 
 HE WOULD BE A SOLDIER. 
 
 Charles, Oh Father — indeed I must be a soldier. 
 
 Mr, Ashton. I have ahvays told you, my son, that 
 I would never control you in the choice of a profes- 
 sion, and that my narrow means should be stretched 
 to their utmost, to give you a proper education for 
 such a one as you may choose. But it is a great 
 while for you to look forward to an occupation for 
 life. 
 
 Char, Yes, but you know, sir, that many great 
 men have begun when they were but boys, and the 
 sooner I determine what I am to be, the more perfect 
 I can fit myself for it when the time comes. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 81 
 
 JVfr. Jl. That is true, Charles, but the studies upon 
 which jou are now engaged^ are such as every man 
 should be a proficient in. But what has occurred 
 juGt now, to make you so fixed as to your future des- 
 tination ? 
 
 Char, I have been reading the history of the Ame- 
 rican Revolution, and — 
 
 J\Ir, A. And pray v/hat in the history of the Ameri- 
 can Revolution, makes you wish to be a soldier] Do 
 you like the idea of so much fighting with Americans 
 and Indians, who will shoot you down from behind 
 fences and trees, and stone walls, as if you w^ere so 
 many woodcocks ? 
 
 Char. Oh ! dear, no sir ; I would not have fought 
 against the Americans. It is General Washington 
 that I admire so much. Father, don't you think he 
 was a good man, though he was a soldier ? 
 
 J\Ir. A. Indeed I do, my son, — one of the best 
 men that have ever lived, though he was a soldier. 
 But every soldier cannot be like him. 
 
 Char, Yes, but as you say, sir, what man has been, 
 man can be ; and if I am a soldier, and try hard, per- 
 haps I shall be as good a man as he, — almost. 
 
 J\Ir, A, It is possible, no doubt, but not probable. 
 Washington, you must recollect, was not made a 
 good man by being a soldier ; he continued to be a 
 good man in spite of it, and would have been, per- 
 haps, a better man, had he never become one. But 
 Washington is an exception to all great soldiers, and 
 his mihtary character forms but a small part of his 
 excellence. He was the benefactor, the saviour, the 
 fether of his countrymen. His benevolence was as 
 great as his valour — ^his piety and trust in the Deity, 
 more remarkable than either. He is an exception 
 to all soldiers ; and the exception does not make the 
 
\ 
 
 82 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 rule. Besides, you know, that Washington fought , 
 for the hberties of a whole people, against what they \ 
 deemed oppression and tyranny. Now that was a 
 just cause ; and a good man can fight only in a just | 
 cause. 
 
 Char. But, father, I would fight only in a just 
 cause too ; that I am sure of. 
 
 J\Ir. A. But if you become a soldier for life, you 
 must fight when your king and commander tells you I 
 to, and not only when you think you have reason on 
 your side. Others will fight the battle, and win the 
 glory, while you are debating between right and 
 wrong. — A soldier by profession never asks w^hether 
 \xe should or should not be morally justified in bear- 
 ing arms. He only inquires who his enemies are, 
 and where they are — not why they are so. 
 
 Char, Well, and was not Washington a soldier by 
 profession ? The book says he was a major when 
 only nineteen years old. 
 
 Mr, Jl, He was no soldier by profession. He 
 did not engage in the war because it was his business 
 to fight ; he was a farmer, and not a soldier. He 
 took up arms for a season only, mark that — because 
 he thought his country had just cause for war. He 
 left the plough to take up the sword, when his coun- 
 try was in danger, and left the sword to take up the 
 plough again, when the danger had ceased. So you 
 see that fighting was not his occupation. 
 
 Char, Except in a just cause, father ; and are not 
 all wars, I mean most wars, just ? 
 
 JMr, A, One side at least must always be in the 
 wrong. Both cannot be in the right at once ; both 
 cannot have just cause of war. But in most cases 
 you would acknow^ledge, I suspect, if you knew the 
 circumstances, that there was nothing on either side 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 83 
 
 sufficient to authorize recourse to so dreadful an ex- 
 pedient as war. Wars generally arise from the ambi- 
 tion of kings, or ministers, or generals, and are found- 
 ed upon some petty dispute about boundaries or land- 
 marks, which serve merely as a pretence. 
 
 Char. Is this really the case, papa? 
 
 JMr. A, It is, and i^ three quarters of the officers 
 and soldiers engaged in battle were asked, after it 
 was over, what they had been fighting for, they would 
 not be able to tell you. They fight because it is 
 their business to fight, and because they earn their 
 living by it, or expect to gain credit, and honour, and 
 rank — not because their cause is just. 
 
 Char. Well, father, it may be so with some, or a 
 good many, but not with me ; so that, after all, I don't 
 see but I must be a soldier. To be an officer — a 
 colonel, for instance — must be a fine thing indeed — 
 a colonel has tv/o epaulets, sir, and rides on horse- 
 back, and commands a whole regiment — and to be 
 general, and command an army, must be a very, 
 very fine thing indeed. 
 
 Mr. A. Vrell, Charles, I repeat to you I shall 
 not control your choice. When you have arrived at 
 a proper age to judge for yourself, if you still per- 
 sist in your intention of becoming a soldier, I shall 
 not oppose it, but put every facility in your way. 
 
 I will purchase a commission for you m the army, 
 and then you must fight your way to fame and for- 
 tune. 
 
 Char, Oh, father, how proud I shall be ; that is 
 just what I should hke — how I wish the time w^as 
 come ! 
 
 JVfr. Jl. A few years pass away very quickly, 
 Charles. But in the meantime I must use my en- 
 deavours to render you peifect in the studies you are 
 
84 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 now pursuing, which are as necessary to (he soldier 
 as they are to the clergyman or lawyer. 
 
 THE AFRICAN CHIEF. 
 
 Chained in the market-place he stood, 
 
 A man of giant frame, 
 Amid the gathering multitude 
 
 That shrunk to hear his name, — 
 All stern in look and strong of limb, 
 
 His dark eye on the ground : 
 And silently they gazed on him, 
 
 As on a lion bound. 
 
 Vainly, but well, that chief had fought — 
 
 He was a captive now ; 
 Tet pride, that fortune humbles not, 
 
 Was written on his brow : 
 The scars his dark broad bosom wore 
 
 Showed warrior true and brave ; 
 A prince among his tribe before, 
 
 He could not be a slave. 
 
 Then to his conqueror he spake — 
 
 " My brother is a king : 
 Undo this necklace from my neck, 
 
 And take this bracelet ring. 
 And send me where my brother reigns, 
 
 And I will fill thy hands 
 With store of ivory from the plains. 
 
 And gold dust from the sands." 
 
 *' Not for thy ivor}^ nor thy gold 
 Will I unbind thy chain ; 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 85 
 
 That bloody hand shall never hold 
 
 The battle-spear again. 
 A price thy nation never gave 
 
 Shall yet be paid for thee ; 
 For thou shalt be the Christian's slave 
 
 In lands beyond the sea." 
 
 Then wept the wanior chief, and bade 
 
 To shred his locks away ; 
 And, one by one, each heavy braid 
 
 Before the victor lay. 
 Thick were the platted locks, and long, 
 
 And deftly hidden there 
 Shone many a w edge of gold among 
 
 The dark and crisped hair. 
 
 " Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold, 
 
 Long kept for sorest need : 
 Take it — thou askest sums untold — 
 
 And say that I am freed. 
 Take it, — my wife, the long, long day 
 
 Weeps by the cocoa tree. 
 And my young children leave their play, 
 
 And ask in vain for me." 
 
 ** I take thy gold, — but I have made 
 
 Thy fetters fast and strong. 
 And ween that by the cocoa shade 
 
 Thy wife shall wait thee long." 
 Strong was the agony that shook 
 
 The captive's frame to hear, 
 And the proud meaning of his look 
 
 Was changed to mortal fear. 
 
 His heart was broken — crazed his brain — 
 At once his eye grew wild : 
 
 8 
 
86 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 He struggled fiercely with his chain, 
 Whispered, and v\ ept, and smiled ; 
 
 Yet wore not long those fatal bands. 
 And once, at shut of day. 
 
 They drew him forth upon the sands. 
 The foul hyena's prey. 
 
 WASHING DAY. 
 
 The Muses are turned gossips ; they have lost 
 The buskined step, and clear high-sounding phrase. 
 Language of gods. Come, then, domestic Muse, 
 In slipshod measure loosely prattling on 
 Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream, 
 Or drowning flies, or shoe lost in the mire 
 By little whimpering boy, with rueful face ; 
 Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded Washing-Day. 
 Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend, 
 With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day 
 Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on 
 Too soon ; — for to that day nor peace belongs 
 Nor comfort ; — ere the first gray streak of dawn, 
 The red-armed washers come and chase repose. 
 Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth, 
 E'er visited that day : the very cat. 
 From the wet kitchen scared and reeking hearth. 
 Visits the parloure, — an unwonted guest. 
 The silent breakfast-meal is soon despatched ; 
 Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks 
 Cast at the lowering sky, if sky should lower. 
 From that last evil, preserve us, heavens ! 
 For should the skies pour down, adieu to all 
 Remains of quiet : then expect to hear 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 87 
 
 Of sad disasters, — dirt and gravel stains 
 
 Hard to eftace, and loaded lines at once 
 
 Snapped short, — and linen-horse by dog thrown down, 
 
 And all the petty miseries of Hfe. 
 
 Saints have been calm while stretched upon the rack, 
 
 And Guatimozin smiled on burning coals ; 
 
 But never yet did housewife notable 
 
 Greet with a smile a rainy washing-day. 
 
 — But grant the welkin fair, require not thou 
 
 Who call'st thyself perchance the master there, 
 
 Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat, 
 
 Or usual 'tendance ; — ^ask not, indiscreet, 
 
 Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents 
 
 Gape wide as Erebus ; nor hope to find 
 
 Some snug recess impervious : shouldst thou try 
 
 The 'customed garden walks, thine eye shall rue 
 
 The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs, 
 
 Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight 
 
 Of coarse checked apron, — with impatient hand 
 
 Twitched off when showers impend : or crossing 
 
 lines 
 Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet 
 Flaps in thy face abrupt. Woe to the friend 
 Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim 
 On such a day the hospitable rites ! 
 Looks, blank at best, and stinted courtesy, 
 Shall he receive. Vainly he feeds his hopes 
 W ith dinner of roast chickens, savoury pie, 
 Or tart or pudding : — pudding be nor tart 
 That day shall eat ; nor, though the husband try, 
 Mending what can't be helped, to kindle mirth 
 From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow 
 Clear up propitious : — the unlucky guest 
 In silence dines, and early slinks away. 
 I well remember when a child, the awe 
 
88 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 This day struck into me ; for then the maids, 
 
 I scarce knew why, looked cross, and drove me from 
 
 them : 
 Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope 
 Usual indulgences ; jelly or creams. 
 Relic of costly suppers, and set by 
 For me their petted one ; or buttered toast, 
 When butter was forbid ; or thrilling tale 
 Of ghost or witch, or murder — so I went 
 And sheltered me beside the parlour fire : 
 There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms, 
 Tended the little ones, and watched from harm, 
 Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles 
 With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins 
 Drawn from her ravelled stockings, might have soured 
 One less indulgent — J 
 
 At intervals my mother's voice was heard, 
 Urging despatch : briskly the work went on. 
 All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to wring. 
 To fold, and starch, and clap, and iron and plait. 
 Then would I sit me down and ponder much 
 Why washings were. Sometimes through hollow 
 
 bowl > 
 
 Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft 
 The floating bubbles ; little dreaming then 
 To see, Mongolfier, thy silken ball 
 Ride buoyant through the clouds — so near approach 
 The sports of children and the toils of men. 
 Earth, air, and sky, and ocean, hath its bubbles. 
 And verse is one of them — this most of all. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 8§ 
 
 HOW TO TELL BAD NEWS. 
 
 J\Ir. G. Ha! Steward, how are you, my old boy? 
 how do things go on at home ? 
 
 Steivard. Bad enough, your honour ; the magpie's 
 dead. 
 
 JV/r. G. Poor Mag ! so he's gone. How came 
 he to die ? 
 
 SteiiK Over-ate himself, sir. 
 
 J\Ir. G. Did he, faith ? a greedy dog ; why, what 
 ■did he get he liked so well ? 
 
 Steiv. Horse-flesh, sir ; he died of eating horse- 
 flesh. 
 
 JMr. G. How came he to get so much horse- 
 flesh? 
 
 Steiu. All your father's horses, sir. 
 
 J\l7\ G. What ! are they dead, too ? 
 
 Stew. Ay, sir ; they died of over- work. 
 
 J\Ir. G. And why were they over-worked, pray? 
 ■ Steiv. To carry water, sir. 
 
 fmt JVfr. G. To carry water! and what were they 
 carrying water for ? 
 
 Stew. Sure, sir, to put out the fire. 
 
 Mr. G. Fire ! what fire ? 
 
 Stetv. Oh, sir, your father's house is burned down 
 to the ground. 
 
 JMr. G. My father's house burned down! and 
 how came it set on fire ? 
 
 Steiv. I think, sir, it must have been the torches. 
 
 J\Ir. G. Torches ! what torches ? 
 
 Steiu. At your mother's funeral. 
 
 Mr. G. My mother dead ! 
 
 Steiv. Ah , poor lady, she never looked up after it. 
 
 Mr. G. After what ? 
 
 8* 
 
90 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 Steiv. The loss of your father. 
 
 J\Ir. G. My father gone too 1 
 
 Stew, Yes, poor gentleman, he took to his bed as 
 soon as he heard of it. 
 
 Mr. G. Heard of what? 
 
 Stew. The bad news, sir, and please your honour. 
 
 JMr. G. What ! more miseries ! more bad news ? 
 
 Stew. Yes, sir, your bank has failed, and your cre- 
 dit is lost, and you are not worth a shilling in the 
 world. I made bold, sir, to come to wait on you 
 about it, for I thought you would like to hear the 
 news. 
 
 CASABIANCA.* 
 
 The boy stood on the burning deck. 
 
 Whence all but him had fled ; 
 The flame that lit the battle's wreck, 
 
 Shone round him o'er the dead. 
 
 Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 
 
 As born to rule the storm ; 
 A creature of heroic blood, 
 
 A proud, though child-like form. 
 
 The flames roll'd on — he would not go, 
 
 Without his father's word ; 
 That father, faint in death below, 
 
 His voice no longer heard. 
 
 * Young Casabianca, a boy about tbirteen years old, son 
 to the admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle 
 of the Nile,) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had 
 been abandoned ; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, 
 when the flames had reached the powder. 
 
BEADER AND SPEAKER. 91 
 
 He call'd aloud — " Say, father, say 
 
 If yet my task is done?" 
 He Imew not that the chieftain lay 
 
 Unconscious of his son. 
 
 *' Speak, Father !" once again he cried, 
 " If I may yet be gone !" 
 And but the booming shots replied, 
 And fast the flames rolPd on. 
 
 Upon his brow he felt their breath, 
 
 And in his waving hair ; 
 And look'd from that lone post of death, 
 
 In still, yet brave despair. 
 
 And shouted but once more aloud, 
 
 " My Father ! must I stay V 
 While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 
 
 The wreathing fires made way. 
 
 They wrapt the ship in splendour \vild, 
 
 They caught the flag on high. 
 And streamed above the gallant child 
 
 Like banners in the sky. 
 
 There came a burst of thunder sound — 
 The boy — oh ! were was he ? 
 Ask of the winds that far around 
 With fragments strew'd the sea ! 
 
 With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
 
 That well had borne their part — 
 But the noblest thing that perish'd there, 
 
 Was that young faithful heart. 
 
92 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 The breaking waves dashed high 
 
 On a stem and rock-bound coast ; 
 And the woods, against a stormy sky, 
 
 Their giant branches tossed ; 
 
 And the heavy night hung dark, 
 
 The hills and waters o'er. 
 When a band of exiles moored their bark 
 
 On the wild New England shore. 
 
 Not as the conqueror comes. 
 
 They, the true-hearted, came ; — 
 Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 
 
 And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 
 
 Not as the flying come. 
 
 In silence, and in fear : — 
 They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 
 
 With their hymns of lofty cheer. 
 
 Amidst the storm they sang. 
 
 And the stars heard, and the sea ; 
 And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
 
 To the anthem of the free. 
 
 The ocean-eagle soared 
 
 From his nest, by the white wave's foam. 
 And the rocking pines of the forest roared : — 
 
 This was their welcome home. 
 
 There were men with hoary hair 
 
 Amidst that pilgrim band : 
 Thy had they come to wither there. 
 Away from their childhood's land ? 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 There was woman's fearless eye, 
 
 Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
 There was manhood's brow serenely high, 
 
 And the fiery heart of youth. 
 
 What sought they thus afar ? 
 
 Bright jewels of the mine? 
 The wealth of seas? the spoils of war? — 
 
 They sought a faith's pure shrine. 
 
 Ay, call it holy ground, — 
 
 The soil where first they trod ! 
 
 They have left unstained what there they found- 
 Freedom to worship God ! 
 
 WORKS OF THE CORAL INSECT. 
 
 Though some species of corals are found in all 
 climates, they abound chiefly in the tropical regions. 
 In particular, the larger and more solid kinds seem 
 to have chosen those climates for their habitation ; 
 while the more tender and minute, the Flustras for 
 example, occur in the colder seas. 
 
 These animals vary from the size of a pin's head, 
 or even less, to somewhat more than the bulk of a 
 pea ; and it is by the persevering efforts of creatures 
 so insignificant, working in myriads, and working 
 through ages, that the enormous structures in ques- 
 tion are erected. 
 
 Enormous we may well call them, when the great 
 Coral Reef of New Holland alone is a thousand 
 miles in length, and when its altitude, though yet 
 scarcely fathomed in tv/enty places, cannot range to 
 
94 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 less than between one and two thousand feet. It is 
 a mountain ridge, that would reach almost three times 
 from one extremity of England to the other, with the 
 height of Ingleborough, or that of the ordinary and 
 prevailing class of the Scottish mountains. — And this 
 is the work of insects, whose dimensions are less 
 than those of a house fly. It is perfectly overwhelm- 
 ing. 
 
 But what is even this. The whole of the Pacific 
 Ocean is crowded with islands of the same architec- 
 ture, the produce of the same insignificant archi- 
 tects. An animal barely possessing life, scarcely 
 appearing to possess volition, tied down to its narrow 
 cell, ephemeral in existence, is daily, hourly, creat- 
 ing the habitations of men, of animals, of plants. It 
 is founding a new continent ; it is constructing a new 
 world. 
 
 These are among the wonders of His mighty hand ; 
 such are among the means which He uses to forward 
 His ends of benevolence. Yet man, vain man, pre- 
 tends to look down on the myriads of beings equally 
 insignificant in appearance, because he has not yet 
 discovered the great offices w^hich they hold, the 
 duties which they fulfil, in the great order of nature. 
 
 If we have said that the Coral insect is creating a 
 new continent, we have not said more than the truth. 
 Navigators now know that the Great Southern Ocean 
 is not only crowded with those islands, but that it is 
 crowded with submarine rocks of the same nature, 
 rapidly growing up to the surface, where, at length 
 overtopping the ocean, they are destined to form new 
 habitations for man to extend his dominion. 
 
 They grow and unite into circles and ridges, and 
 ultimately they become extensive tracts. This pro- 
 cess cannot cease while those animals exist and pro- 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 95 
 
 pagate. It must increase in an accelerating ratio ; 
 and the result will be, that, by the wider union of 
 such islands, an extensive archipelago, and at length 
 a continent must be formed. 
 
 This process is equally visible in the Red Sea. 
 It is daily becoming less and less navigable, in con- 
 sequence of the growth of its Coral rocks ; and the 
 day is to come, w^hen, perhaps, one plain will unite 
 the opposed shores of Egypt and Arabia. 
 
 But let us here also admire the wonderful provision 
 which is made, deep in the earth, for completing the 
 work which those animals have commenced. And 
 we may here note the contrast between the silent and 
 unmarked labours of working myriads, operating by 
 an universal and long ordained lasv, and the sudden, 
 the momentary, effort of a power, which, from the 
 rarity of its exertion, seems to be especially among 
 the miraculous interpositions of the Creator. 
 
 It is the volcano and the earthquake that are to 
 complete the structure which the coral insect has 
 laid ; to elevate the mountain, and form the valley, to 
 introduce beneath the equator the range of climate 
 which belongs to the temperate regions, and to lay 
 the great hydraulic engine, by which the clouds are 
 collected to fertilize the earth, which causes the 
 spring to burst forth and the rivers to flow. 
 
 And this is the work of one short hour. — If the 
 coral insect was not made in vain, neither was it for 
 destruction that God ordained the volcano and the 
 earthquake. Thus also, by means so opposed, so 
 contrasted, is one single end attained. And that end 
 is the w^elfare, the happiness of man. 
 
 If man has but recently opened his eyes on the im- 
 portant facts w^hich we have now stated, his che- 
 mistry is still unable to explain them. T\Tience all 
 
96 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 this rock : this calcareous earth ? We need scarcely 
 say that the corals all consist of calcareous earth, of 
 lime united by animal matter. The whole appears 
 to be the creation of the animal. It is a secretion by 
 its organs. Not only is the production of calcareous 
 earth proceeding daily in this manner, but by the 
 actions of the myriad tribes of shell fishes who are 
 forming their larger habitations, in the same manner, 
 and from the same material. 
 
 It is this, which forms the calcareous beds of the 
 ocean ; it is this, which has formed those enormous 
 accumulations, in a former state of the world, which 
 are now our mountains, the chalk and limestone of 
 England, and the ridge of the Apennines. These 
 are the productions of the inhabitants of an ancient 
 ocean. Whence did it all come ? We may know 
 some day ; but assuredly we do not now know. 
 
 Thus it is that we prove, that all the limestone of 
 the world has been the produce of animals, though 
 how produced, we as yet know not. If a polype has 
 constructed the same submarine mountain of New 
 Holland, the thousand tribes and myriads of indivi- 
 duals, which inhabited the submarine Apennine, 
 might as easily, far more easily, have formed that 
 ridge. We prove that this is the case, because we 
 find the shells in the mountains, because we find the 
 mountains made of shells. 
 
 THE CORAL INSECT. 
 
 Toil on ! toil on ! ye ephemeral train. 
 
 Who build in the tossing and treacherous main ; 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 97 
 
 Toil on — ^for the wisdom of man ye mock, 
 With your sand-based structures and domes of rock ; 
 Your columns the fathomless fountains lave, 
 And your arches spring up to the crested wave ; 
 Te're a puny race, thus to boldly rear 
 A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear. 
 
 Ye bind the deep with your secret zone. 
 The ocean is sealed, and the surge a stone ; 
 Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring, 
 Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king ; 
 The turf looks green where the breakers rolled ; 
 O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold ; 
 The sea-snatched isle is the home of men. 
 And mountains exult where the wave hath been. 
 
 But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark 
 The wrecking reef for the gallant bark ? 
 There are snares enough on the tented field, 
 'Mid the blossomed sweets that the valleys yield ; 
 There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up ; 
 There's a poison drop in man's purest cup ; 
 There are foes that watch for his cradle breath, 
 And why need ye sow the floods with death ? 
 
 With mouldering bones the deeps are white. 
 From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright ; — 
 The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold. 
 With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold, 
 And the gods of ocean have frov/ned to see 
 The mariner's bed in their halls of glee ; — 
 Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread 
 The boundless sea for the thronging dead ? 
 
 Ye build — ye build — ^but ye enter not in. 
 Like the tribes whom the desert devoured in their sin ; 
 9 
 
98 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 From the land of promise ye fade and die, 
 
 Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye ;— *• 
 
 As the kings of the cloud-crowned pyramid, 
 
 Their noteless bones in oblivion hid, 
 
 Ye slumber unmarked 'mid the desolate main, 
 
 While the wonder and pride of your works remain. 
 
 THE FAMILY BIBLE. 
 
 How painfully pleasing the fond recollection 
 
 Of youthful connexions and innocent joy, 
 When, blessed with parental advice and affection. 
 
 Surrounded with mercies, with peace from on high, 
 I still view the chair of my sire and my mother. 
 
 The seats of their offspring as ranged on each 
 hand, 
 And that richest of books, which excelled every 
 other — 
 
 That family bible that lay on the stand ; 
 The old fashioned bible, the dear, blessed bible, 
 
 The family bible, that lay on the stand. 
 
 That bible, the volume of God's inspiration, 
 
 At morn and at evening, could yield us delight, 
 And the prayer of our sire was a sweet invocation, 
 
 For mercy by day, and for safety through night, 
 Our hymns of thanksgiving, v/ith harmony swelling, 
 
 All warm from the heart of a family band. 
 Half raised us from earth to that rapturous dwelling, 
 
 Described in the bible that lay on the stand ; 
 That richest of books, which excelled every other — 
 
 The family bible, that lay on the stand. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 99 
 
 Te scenes of tranquillity, long have we parted ; 
 
 My hopes almost gone, and my parents no more ; 
 In sorrow and sadness I live broken-hearted, 
 
 And wander unknown on a far distant shore. 
 Yet how can I doubt a dear Saviour's protection, 
 
 Forgetful of gifts from his bountiful hand ! 
 0, let me, with patience, receive his correction, 
 
 And think of the bible, that lay on the stand ; 
 That richest of books, which excelled every other — 
 
 That family bible, that lay on the stand. 
 
 THE REED-SPARROW'S NEST. 
 
 I. 
 Come here, and I'll show you a wonderful work — 
 I'll show you the reed-sparrow's nest ; 
 'Only see v/hat a neat, warm, compact little thing! 
 Mister Nash could not build such a house for the 
 King : 
 Not he, let him labour his best ! 
 
 II. 
 " 'Tis hardly a house, though — a cradle, methinks. 
 
 Slung up like an Indian's, between 
 Those six reedy pillars, so slender and tall, 
 Each topped, hke a turret of Oberon's hall, 
 
 With its own fairy-banner of green. 
 
 1 ^ III. 
 
 I •* And see ! the green banners are waving aloft 
 ' And the cradle rocks gently below ; 
 And the shafts that uphold it, so slender and tall" — 
 ' ** They're bending ! — they're brealdng ! — the cradle 
 will fail, 
 For the breeze is beginning to blow !" 
 
100 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Let it blow, let it blow : let them rock to and fro ; 
 
 Reeds, cradle, and all — never fear : — 
 'Twas an instinct unerring (God's gift to the weak) 
 Taught the poor little builder this covert to seek, 
 
 That the hurricane only comes near — 
 
 V. 
 
 " Only near enough (hark !) just to pipe in the shrowds, 
 
 The tall tree tops, with musical din : 
 And to rattle the hazels and hollies about, 
 And behind them to bluster and make a great rout, 
 
 Like a bully who cannot get in. 
 
 VI. 
 
 "And to puff here and there, through a chink in the 
 leaves, 
 
 At the reeds, and the reed-sparrow's nest ; 
 Just enough to unfurl the green banners aloft, 
 And to balance the cradle, with motion so soft, 
 
 It but lulls the young nurslings to rest. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " And there sits the mother-bird, brooding in peace. 
 
 And her mate is beginning to sing — 
 Proud I warrant is he, of house, children, and wife ; 
 Of the house he helped build, — Mister Nash for his 
 life, 
 
 Could not build such a one for the King ! 
 
 GESLER AND ALBERT. 
 
 l^Geshr with a hunting pole.'] 
 
 Ges. Alone — alone ! and every step, the mist 
 Thickens around me ! On these mountain tracts 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 101 
 
 To lose one's way, they say, is sometimes death ! 
 
 •" What, hoa ! Holloa ! No tongue replies to me ! 
 "Wb?! thunder hath the horror of this silence ! 
 ' I dare not stop — the day, though not half run, 
 * Is not less sure to end his course ; and night, 
 ' Dreary when through the social haunts of men 
 ' Her solemn darkness walks, in such a place 
 ' As this, comes wrapped in most appalling fear.* 
 I dare not stop — nor dare I yet proceed, 
 Begirt with hidden danger : if I take 
 This hand, it carries me still deeper into 
 The wild and savage solitudes I'd shun. 
 Where once to faint with hunger is to die : 
 If this, it leads me to the precipice, 
 
 * Whose brink with fatal horror rivets him 
 That treads upon 't, till drunk with fear, he reels 
 Into the gaping void, and headlong down 
 Plunges to still more hideous death. Cursed slaves, 
 To let me wander from them ! Hoa — holloa ! — 
 My voice sounds weaker to mine ear ; I've not 
 The strength to call I had, and through my limbs 
 Cold tremor runs — and sickening faintness seizes 
 On my heart. Heaven, have mercy ! Do not see 
 The color of the hands I lift to thee ! 
 Look only on the strait wherein I stand, 
 And pity it ! Let me not sink — Uphold ! 
 Support me ! Mercy ! — Mercy ! 
 
 l^He stands stupijied iviih terror and exhaustion. 
 Albert enters with his hunting pole, not at first seeing 
 Gesler.^ 
 
 Mb, I'll breathe upon this level, if the wind 
 Will let me. Ha ! a rock to shelter me ! 
 Thanks to 't — a man ! and fainting. Courage, friend ! 
 Courage. — A stranger that has lost his way — 
 9* 
 
102 READER AND SPEAKER, 
 
 Take heart — ^take heart : you're safe. How feel you 
 now 1 
 
 Ges, Better. 
 
 Alb. You've lost your way upon the hill ? 
 
 Ges. I have. 
 
 Alb. And whither would you go ? 
 
 Ges. ToAltorf. 
 
 Alb. I'll guide you thither. 
 
 Ges. You're a child. 
 
 Alb. I know 
 The way ; the track I've come is harder far 
 To find. 
 
 Ges. The track you've come ! what mean you ? 
 Sure you have not been still farther in the mountains ? 
 
 Alb. I've travelled from Mount Faigel. 
 
 Ges. No one with thee ? 
 
 Alb. No one but Him. 
 
 Ges. Do you not fear these storms ? 
 
 Alb. He's in the storm. 
 
 Ges. And there are torrents, too, 
 That must be crossed ? 
 
 Alb. He's by the torrent, too. 
 
 Ges. You're but a child ! 
 
 Alb. He will be with a child. 
 
 Ges. You're sure you know the way? 
 
 Alb. 'Tis but to keep 
 The side of yonder stream. 
 
 Ges. But guide me safe, 
 I'll give thee gold. 
 
 Alb. I'll guide thee safe without. 
 
 Ges. Here's earnest for thee. Here — ^I'U double 
 that. 
 Yea, treble it — but let me see the gate 
 Of Altorf. Why do you refuse the gold ? 
 Take it. 
 
HEADER AND SPEAKER. 103 
 
 Alb. No. 
 
 Ges. You shall. 
 
 Alb. I will not. 
 
 Ges. Why? 
 
 Alb. Because 
 I do not covet it; — and though I did, 
 It would be wrong to take it as the price 
 Of doing one a kindness. 
 
 Ges. Ha ! — who taught 
 Thee that? 
 
 Alb. My father. 
 
 Ges. Does he live in Altorf? 
 
 Alb. No ; in the mountains. 
 
 Ges. How — a mountaineer ? 
 He should become a tenant of the city : 
 He'd gain by't. 
 
 Alb, Not so much as he might lose by^t. 
 
 Ges. What might he lose by't ? 
 
 Alb. Liberty. 
 
 Ges. Indeed! 
 He also taught thee that ? 
 
 Alb. He did. 
 
 Ges. His name 1 
 
 Alb. This is the way to Altorf, Sir. 
 
 Ges. I'd know 
 Thy father's name. 
 
 Alb. The day is wasting — we 
 Have far to go. 
 
 ^ Ges. Thy father's name ? I say. 
 
 Alb. I v/ill not tell it thee. 
 
 Ges. Not tell it me ! 
 Why? 
 
 Alb. You may be an enemy of his. 
 
 Ges. May be a friend. 
 
 AU). May be ; but should you be 
 
104 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 An enemy — although I would not tell you 
 
 My father's name — I'd guide you safe to Altorf. 
 
 Will you follow me 1 
 
 Ges, Ne'er mind thy father's name. 
 What would it profit me to know't ? Thy hand ; 
 We are not enemies. 
 
 Alb. I never had 
 An enemy. 
 
 Ges, Lead on. 
 
 Mb. Advance your staff 
 As you descend, and fix it well. Come on. 
 
 Ges, What ! must we take that step 1 
 
 Alb, 'Tis nothing ? Come, 
 I'll go before. Ne'er fear — Come on ! come on ! 
 
 APOLOGUE. 
 
 I. 
 My little girl, the other day 
 
 (Three years of age a month ago) 
 Wounded her finger while at play, 
 
 And saw the crimson fluid flow. 
 With pleadmg optics, raining tears. 
 
 She sought my aid, in terror wild ; 
 I smiling said, '' Dismiss your fears, 
 
 And all shall soon be well, my child." 
 Her little bdsom ceased to swell. 
 
 While she replied, with calmer brow 
 ** I know that you can make it well, 
 
 But how, papa ? I don't see how.'' 
 
 II. 
 Our children oft entreat us thus 
 For succour, or for recompense, 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 105 
 
 They look with confidence to us, 
 
 As we should look to Providence, 
 For each infantile doubt and fear, 
 
 And every little childish grief 
 Is uttered to a parent's ear, 
 
 With full assurance of relief. 
 A grateful sense of favours past, 
 
 Incites them to petition now, 
 With faith in succour to the last. 
 
 Although they can't imagine how. 
 
 III. 
 And shall I doubtingly repine, 
 
 When clouds of dark affliction lower ? 
 A more tender Father still is mine. 
 
 Of greater mercy, love, and power ; 
 He clothes the lily, feeds the dove. 
 
 The meanest insect feels his care ; 
 And shall not man confess his love, 
 
 Man, his own offspring, and his heir ? 
 Yes, though he slay, I'll trust him still. 
 
 And still with resignation bow ; 
 He may relieve, he can, he mil, 
 
 Although I cannot yet see how. 
 
 THE BOYS AND THE FROGS.— A Fable. 
 
 Some school boys, one day, 
 
 Who had gone out to play. 
 By the side of a mill-pond, not far from their school, 
 
 Saw a party of frogs. 
 
 Diving off from the logs 
 And stones, on the margin, to swim in the pool. 
 
106 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 The boys, all as one, 
 
 Said " Now for some fun ! 
 Let us pelt the young croakers and give 'em no 
 quarter, 
 
 Till there is not a frog 
 
 That, by stone, stump, or log, 
 Shall dare lift his yellow chaps* out of the water." 
 
 So with full hands and hats 
 
 They brought stones and brick-bats, 
 And began the poor innocent creatures to slaughter ; 
 
 Till one, they saw jump 
 
 To the top of a stump, 
 That stood under the reeds, in the edge of the water. 
 
 And thus — if we're able 
 
 To credit the fable, — 
 The thing must have filled every hearer with won- 
 der, — 
 
 'Mid a volley of stones 
 
 That threatened his bones. 
 He spoke to the lads in a voice like the thunder. 
 
 * Let alone — let alone 
 
 Club, brick-bat, and stone. 
 Naughty boys ! cruel boys ! and pelt us not thus ! 
 
 Consider, I pray. 
 
 Consider, your play^ 
 To you though a frolic^ is murder to t(5." 
 
 Moral. 
 No boy should forget that each boy is his brother, 
 Or find pleasure in that which gives pain to another. 
 
 * Pronounced chops. 
 
% 
 
 HEADER AND SPEAKER. 107 
 
 A CHAPTER ON LOUNGERS. 
 
 1. One lounger takes up more room than two la- 
 bourers. 
 
 2. Loungers are always unhappy themselves, and 
 their presence makes others so. 
 
 3. Loungers are invariably in mischief, because 
 they have no other employ. Mice, rats, thieves, and 
 borrowers themselves, are a less intolerable and de- 
 structive species of animals than loungers. 
 
 4. If you wish to injure your credit — lounge. No 
 man of sense will ever trust you a sixpence after 
 having detected you in lounging. 
 
 5. Lounging should be classed among the great 
 national evils that require to be removed. If nothing 
 else can effect a cure, there should be established a 
 great national anti-lounging society, with auxiliaries 
 in every city, town, village, hamlet, and — printing 
 office — in the country. 
 
 6. TVhen do people first begin to visit the gi'og- 
 shop — the bar-room — the porter-house X — when they 
 first learn to lounge. 
 
 7. Lounging begets idleness, restlessness, impa- 
 tience of restraint, and neglect of duty. 
 
 8. Where do you hear vulgar and profane lan- 
 guage ? Among loungers. Who waste the precious 
 hours of the Sabbath? Loungers. 
 
 9. For what purpose were theatres and playhouses 
 invented? For the edification of loungers. Who 
 loiter around ten-pin alleys, billiard-rooms, race- 
 grounds, and cock-pits ! Loungers. 
 
 10. Who foment the wars that desolate the earth? 
 Princely loungers, with whom campaigns are a game 
 
108 READER AND SPEAKER. - 
 
 of hazard and ' amusement — whose dice-boards are 
 battle-fields — whose chessmen human beings. 
 
 11. Why are all these abuses tolerated in this age 
 of boasted hght, and literature, and learning ? — Be- 
 cause learned loungers have turned authors for their 
 own and others' amusement, and deluge the world, 
 not with their works but with their idleness : and be- 
 cause fashionable loungers read to drive away thought, 
 not to promote thinking. 
 
 12. Honesty should not lounge — for lounging and 
 paying seldom ^o together. Patriotism cannot lounge 
 — for lounging is the nation's curse. Christian, dost 
 thou lounge ? Up, and be doing — ' Whatsoever thy 
 hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might.' 
 
 THE WAY TO FIND OUT PRIDE. 
 
 Pride, ugly pride, sometimes is seen. 
 By haughty looks^ and lofty mien ; 
 But ofVner it is found, that pride 
 Loves deep within the heart to hide, 
 And, while the looks are mild and /air, 
 It sits and does its mischief there. 
 
 Now, if you really wish to find 
 If pride is lurking in your mind, 
 Inquire if you can bear a slight^ 
 Or patiently give up your right. 
 Can you submissively consent 
 To take reproof and punishment, 
 And feel no angry temper start. 
 In any corner of your heart ? 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 109 
 
 Can you ^^ith frankness own a crime, 
 And promise for another time ? 
 Or say you've been in a mistake, 
 
 Nor try some poor excuse to make, 
 But freely own that it was wTong 
 To argue for your side so long ] 
 
 Flat contradiction can you bear, 
 
 "RTien you aie righf, and knoiu you are ; 
 
 In or flatly contradict again, 
 
 But wait, or modestly explain, 
 
 And tell your reasons, one by one. 
 
 Nor think of triumph^ when you've done 1 
 
 Can you in business, or in play, 
 Give up your wishes or your ivaij ; 
 Or do a thing against your will. 
 For somebody that's younger still ? 
 And never try to overbear, 
 Or say a word that is not fair ? 
 
 Does laughing at you, in a joke. 
 No anger, nor revenge, provoke ? 
 But can you laugh yourself^ and be 
 As merry as the company ? 
 Or when you find that you could do 
 To them, as they have done to you. 
 Can you keep down the wicked thought 
 And do exactly as you ought ] 
 
 Put all these questions to your heart, 
 And make it act an honest part ; 
 And, when they've each been fairly tried, 
 I think you'll oiun that you have pride ; 
 Some one will suit you, as you go 
 And force your heart to tell you so ; 
 10 
 
lid READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 But if they all should be denied, 
 
 Then you're too proud to own your pride ! 
 
 GREAT EFFECTS RESULT FROM LITTLE 
 
 CAUSES. 
 
 The same connexion betwixt small things and great, 
 runs through all the concerns of our world. The ig- 
 norance of a physician, or the carelessness of an 
 apothecary, may spread death through a family or a 
 town. How often has the sickness of one man be- 
 come the sickness of thousands? How often has 
 the error of one man become the error of thousands t 
 
 A fly or an atom may set in motion a train of in- 
 termediate causes, which shall produce a revolution 
 in a kingdom. Any one of a thousand incidents, 
 might have cut off Alexander of Greece in his cra- 
 dle. But if Alexander had died in infancy, or had 
 lived a single day longer than he did, it might have 
 put another face on all the following history of the 
 world. 
 
 A spectacle-maker's boy, amusing himself in his 
 father's shop, by holding two glasses between his fin- 
 ger and his thumb, and varying their distance, per- 
 ceived the weathercock of the church spire, opposite 
 to him, much larger than ordinary, and apparently 
 much nearer, and turned upside down. This excit- 
 ed the wonder of the father, and led him to addition- 
 al experiments ; and these resulted in that astonish- 
 ing instrument, the Telescope, as invented by Gali- 
 leo and perfected by Herschell. 
 
 On the same optical principles was constructed 
 tile Microscope, by which we perceive that ^ drop of 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. Ill 
 
 jstagnant water is a world teeming with inhabitants* 
 By one of these instruments, the experimental philo- 
 sopher measures the ponderous globes, that the om- 
 nipotent hand has ranged in majestic order through the 
 skies ; by the other, he sees the same hand employ- 
 ed in rounding and polishing five thousand minute, 
 transparent globes in the eye of a fly. Yet all these 
 discoveries of modern science, exhibiting the intelli- 
 gence, dominion, and agency of God, we owe to the 
 transient amusement of a child. 
 
 It is a fact, commonly known, that the laws of 
 gravitation, which guide the thousands of rolling 
 worlds in the planetary system, were suggested at 
 first, to the mind of Newton, by the falling of an ap- 
 ple. 
 
 The art of printing shows from what casual inci- 
 dents the most magnificent events in the scheme of 
 Providence may result. Time was, when princes 
 were scarcely rich enough to purchase a copy of the 
 Bible. Now every cottager in Christendom is rich 
 enough to possess this treasure. " "Who would have 
 thought that the simple circumstance of a man 
 amusing himself by cutting a few letters on the bark 
 of a tree, and impressing them on paper, w^as inti- 
 mately connected with the mental illumination of the 
 world !» 
 
 THE ORPHAN BOY- 
 
 Alas ! I am an orphan boy, 
 With nought on earth to cheer my heart; 
 No father's love, no mother's joy, 
 Nor kin nor kind to take my part. 
 
112 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 My lodging is the cold, cold ground, 
 I eat the bread of charity ; 
 And when the kiss of love goes round, 
 There is no kiss, alas, for me. 
 
 Yet once I had a father dear, 
 A mother, too, whom I could prize ; 
 With ready hand to wipe the tear. 
 If transient tear there chanced to rise. 
 But cause for tears were rarely found, 
 For all my heart was youthful glee ; 
 And when the kiss of love went round. 
 How sweet a kiss there was for me ! 
 
 But ah ! there came a w^ar, they say : 
 
 What is a war ? I cannot tell ; 
 
 The drums and fifes did sweetly play. 
 
 And loudly rang our village bell. 
 
 In truth it was a pretty sound 
 
 I thought, nor could I thence foresee, 
 
 That when the kiss of love went round. 
 
 There soon would be no kiss for me. 
 
 A scarlet coat my father took, 
 
 And sword as bright as bright could be ; 
 
 And feathers that so gaily look, 
 
 All in a shining cap had he. 
 
 Then how my little heart did bound ! 
 
 Alas, I thought it fine to see ; 
 
 Nor dreamt, that when the kiss went round 
 
 There soon would be no kiss for me. 
 
 At length the bell again did ring. 
 There was a victory they said, 
 'Twas what my father said he'd bring ; 
 But ah ! it brought my father dead. 
 
HEADER AND SPEAKER. 118 
 
 My mother shrieked, her heart was woe ; 
 She clasped me to her trembling knee ; 
 God grant that you may never know 
 How wild a kiss she gav^ to me ! 
 
 But once again, but once again, 
 These lips a mother's kisses felt ; 
 That once again, that once again, 
 The tale a heart of stone would melt. 
 'Twas when upon her death-bed laid 
 (Alas ! alas ! that sight to see,) 
 *' My child, my child," she feebly said, 
 And gave a parting kiss to me. 
 
 So now I am an orphan boy, 
 
 With nought below my heart to cheer ; 
 
 No mother's love, no father's joy. 
 
 Nor kin nor kind to wipe the tear. 
 
 My lodging is the cold, cold ground ; 
 
 I eat the bread of charity ; 
 
 And when the kiss of love goes round, 
 
 There is, alas, no kiss for me. 
 
 THE SPIDER, CATERPILLAR, AND SILK-WORM. 
 
 " What sort of a weaver is your neighbour, the 
 Silk- Worm?" said the Spider to a Caterpillar. " She 
 is the slowest, dullest creature imaginable," replied 
 the Caterpillar ; " I can weave a web sixty times as 
 quick as she can. But then she has got her name 
 up in the world, while I am constantly the victim of 
 envy and hatred. My productions are destroyed, 
 sometimes rudely and boldly, sometimes with insi- 
 dious cunning ; but her labours are praised all the 
 XO* 
 
114 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 world over — mankind wreath them with flowers, em- 
 broider them with gold, and load them with jewels." 
 " I sympathize with you deeply," said the Spider ; 
 for I too am the victim of envy and injustice. Look 
 at my web extended across the window-pane ? Did 
 the Silk- Worm ever do any thing to equal its delicate 
 transparency 1 Yet in all probability to-morrow's sun 
 will see it swept away by the unfeeling housemaid. 
 Alas, my sister ! genius and merit are always pur- 
 sued by envy." 
 
 " Foolish creatures," exclaimed a gentleman, who 
 overheard their complaints. " You, Mrs. Caterpillar, 
 who boast of your rapid performances, let me ask 
 you, what is their value ? Do they not contain the 
 eggs that will hereafter develope themselves, and 
 destroy blossom and fruit ? — even as the hasty and 
 selfish writer winds into his pages principles where- 
 withal to poison the young heart's purity and peace ? 
 
 "As for you, Mrs. Spider, you are hardly wor- 
 thy of a rebuke. Your transparent web is broken by a 
 dew-drop, as some pretty poetry is marred by the 
 weight of a single idea. Like other framers of flimsy 
 snares, you will catch a few silly little flies, and soon 
 be swept away — the ephemera* of an hour. But rail 
 not at productions, which ye cannot understand! 
 How can such as you estimate the labours of the 
 Silk-Worm ? Like genius expiring in the intensity 
 of its own fires, she clothes the world in the beauty 
 she dies in creating." 
 
 ^ * e-fem-ir-ci. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 115 
 
 THE SILKWORM'S WILL. 
 
 On a plain rush hurdle a Silkworm lay, 
 When a proud young princess came that way, 
 The haughty child of a human king 
 Threw a sidelong glance at the humble thing, 
 That took with a silent gratitude 
 From the mulberry-leaf her simple food — 
 And shrunk, half scorn and half disgust, 
 Away from her sister child of dust : 
 Declaring she never yet could see 
 Why a reptile form hke this should be, 
 And that she was not made with nerves so firm, 
 As, calmly to stand by a " crawling worm !" 
 
 With mute forbearance the Silkworm took 
 The taunting words and the spurning look. 
 Alike a stranger to self and pride, 
 She'd no disquiet from aught beside 
 And lived of a meekness and peace possessed, 
 Which these debar from the human breast. 
 She only wished, for the harsh abuse, 
 To find some way to become of use 
 To the haughty daughter of lordly man. 
 And thus did she lay a noble plan, 
 To teach her ^visdom and make it plain 
 That the humble worm was not made in vain ; 
 A plan so generous, deep and high, 
 That to carry it out she must even die ! 
 
 " No more," said she, " will I drink or eat ! 
 I'll spin and weave me a "svinding sheet. 
 To wrap me up from the sun's clear light, 
 And hide my form from her wounded sight. 
 
116 READEn AND SPEAKER, 
 
 In secret then till my end draws nigh, 
 
 I'll toil for her ; and when I die, 
 
 I'll leave behind, as a farewell boon. 
 
 To the proud young princess, my whole cocoon, 
 
 To be reeled and wove to a shining lace, 
 
 And hung in a veil o'er her scornful face ! 
 
 And when she can calmly draw her breath 
 
 Through the very threads that have caused my death ; 
 
 When she finds, at length, she has nerves so firm 
 
 As to wear the shroud of a crawling worm, 
 
 May she bear in mind, that she walks with pride 
 
 In the winding-sheet where the Silkworm died !" 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF A RAIN DROP. 
 
 When I was first aware of existence, I found my- 
 self floating in the clouds, among millions of com- 
 panions. 1 was weak and languid, and had indeed 
 fainted entirely away, when a breeze from the north 
 w^as kind enough to fan me, as it swept along toward 
 the equator. The moment my strength was renewed, 
 I felt an irresistible desire to travel. Thousands of 
 neighbours were eager to join me ; and our nume- 
 rous caravan passed rapidly through immense deserts 
 of air, and landed in the garden of Eden. 
 
 As it was a cloudy day, and the sun did not ap- 
 pear, I slipped from a rose leaf to the bottom of a 
 superb arum, and went quietly to sleep. When I 
 awoke, the sun was bright in the heavens, and birds 
 were singing, and insects buzzing joyfully. A saucy 
 humming bird was looking down upon me, thinking, 
 no doubt, that he would drink me up ; but a nightin- 
 gale and scarlet lory both chanced to alight near hira. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 117 
 
 and the flower was weighed down, so that I fell to the 
 ground. Immediately I felt myself drawn up, as if 
 very small cords were fastened to me. It was the 
 power of the sun, which forced me higher and high- 
 er, till I found myself in the clouds, in the same 
 weak, misty state as before. 
 
 Here I floated about, until a cold wind drove me 
 into the Danube. The moment I entered this river, 
 I was pushed forward by such a crowd of water 
 drops, that, before I knew whither I was bound, I 
 found myself at the bottom of the Black Sea. An 
 oyster soon drew me into his shell, where I tumbled 
 over a pearl, large and beautiful enough to grace the 
 snowy neck of Eve. I was well pleased with my 
 situation, and should have remained a long time, 
 had it been in my power ; but an enormous whale 
 came into our vicinity, and the poor oysters were 
 rolled down his throat, with a mighty company of 
 waves. I escaped from my pearl prison, and the 
 next day the great fish threw me from his nostrils, in 
 a cataract of foam. Many were the rivers, seas, and 
 lakes, I visited. Sometimes I rode through the Pa- 
 cific, on a dolphin's back ; and, at others, I slept 
 sweetly under the shade of fan coral,* in the Per- 
 sian Gulf. One week I was a dew drop on the roses 
 of Cashmere ; and another, I moistened the stinted 
 moss on cold Norwegian rocks. 
 
 Time rolled slowly on, and the world grew more 
 wicked. I lived almost entirely in the clouds, or on 
 the flowers ; for mankind could ofier no couch fit for 
 the repose of innocence, save the babe's sinless lip. 
 At last, excessive vice demanded punishment. The 
 Almighty sent it in the form of rain ; and in forty 
 
 * c6r^ai. 
 
118 READER AND SPEAKER, l| 
 
 days the fair earth was overwhelmed. I was per- 
 mitted to remain in the foggy atmosphere ; and when ' 
 the deluge ceased, I found myself arranged, with a | 
 multitude of rain drops, before the blazing pavilion of 
 the sun. His seven coloured rays were separated 
 in passing through us, and reflected on the opposite 
 quarter of the heavens. Thus I had the honour to 
 assist in forming the first rainbow ever seen by man. 
 
 THE DECLINE OP LIFE. 
 
 Friend after friend departs ; 
 
 Who hath not lost a friend ? 
 There is no union here of hearts 
 
 That finds not here an end ; 
 Were this frail world our final rest, 
 Living or dying none were blest. 
 
 Beyond the flight of time, — 
 Beyond the reign of death, — 
 
 There surely is some blessed clime 
 Where life is not a breath ; 
 
 Nor life's affections, transient fire, 
 
 Whose sparks fly upward and expire. 
 
 There is a world above, 
 Where parting is unknown ; 
 
 A long eternity of love, 
 
 Formed for the good alone ; 
 
 And faith beholds the dying, here, 
 
 Translated to that glorious sphere ! 
 
 Thus star by star declines. 
 Till all are passed away ; 
 
BEADER AND SPEAKER. 119 
 
 As morning high and higher shines, 
 
 To pure and perfect day ; 
 Nor sinlc those stars in empty night, 
 But hide themselves in heaven's own Ught. 
 
 ROLLA TO THE PERUVIANS. 
 
 My brave associates — partners of my toil, my 
 feeUngs, and my fame ! — can Rolla's words add vi- 
 gour to the virtuous energies which inspire your 
 hearts ? — No ! — You have judged as I have, the foul- 
 ness of the crafty plea by which these bold invaders 
 would delude you. Your generous spirit has com- 
 pared, as mine has, the motives which, in a war like 
 this, can animate their minds and ours. 
 
 They, by a strange frenzy driven, fight for power, 
 for plunder, and extended rule ; — we, for our country, 
 our altars, and our homes. They follow an adven- 
 turer whom they fear, and obey a power which they 
 hate : — we serve a monarch v*'hom we love — a God 
 whom we adore. Y^Tiere'er they move in anger, de- 
 solation tracks their progress ! Where'er they pause 
 in amity, affliction mourns their friendship. 
 
 They boast they come but to improve our state, 
 enlarge our thoughts, and free us from the yoke of 
 error ! — yes : — they will give enlightened freedom to 
 our minds, who are themselves the slaves of passion, 
 avarice, and pride. They offer us their protection — 
 Yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs — cover- 
 ing and devouring them ! They call on us to barter 
 all the good we have inherited and proved, for the 
 desperate chance of something better which they pro- 
 mise. Be our plain answer this : — The throne we 
 
120 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 honour is the people's choice — the laws we reverence 
 are our brave fathers' legacy — the faith we follow 
 teaches us to live in bonds of charity with all man- 
 kind, and die with hope of bliss beyond the grave. 
 Tell your invaders this, and tell them, too, we seek 
 no change ; and, least of all, such change as they 
 would bring us. 
 
 THE BUCKET. 
 
 I. 
 How dear to my heart are the scenes of my child- 
 hood ! 
 When fond recollection presents them to view; 
 The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild- 
 wood. 
 And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; 
 The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by 
 it. 
 The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; 
 The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it. 
 
 And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well ; 
 The old oaken bucket — the iron-bound bucket — 
 The moss covered bucket, which hung in the 
 well. 
 
 II. 
 That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure — 
 
 For often at noon, when returned from the field, 
 I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 
 
 The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
 How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing, 
 
 And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell ; 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 121 
 
 Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 
 And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well ; 
 The old oaken bucket — the iron-bound bucket — 
 The moss covered bucket arose from the well. 
 
 III. 
 How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, 
 
 As poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 
 Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 
 
 Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
 And now, far removed from that loved situation, 
 
 The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
 As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. 
 And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well ; 
 The old oaken bucket — the iron-bound bucket — 
 The moss covered bucket, which hung in the 
 well. 
 
 PARTIALITY OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Dr. Taylor. Have you read my Key to the Ro- 
 mans? 
 
 JMr, JVeioton. I have turned it over. 
 
 Dr. Taylor. You have turned it over ! And is this 
 the treatment a boolt must meet with, which has cost 
 me many years of hard study ? Must I be told at last 
 that you have " turned it over," and then thrown it 
 aside 1 You ought to have read it carefully, and weigh- 
 ed deliberately what comes forward on so serious a 
 subject. 
 
 JMr. JVewton. Hold ! You have cut me out full 
 employment, if my life were to be as long as Methu- 
 selah's. I have somewhat else to do in the short 
 11 
 
122 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 day allotted me, than to read whatever any one may 
 think it his duty to write. When I read, I wish to 
 read to good purpose ; and there are some books, 
 which contradict on the very face of them what ap- 
 pear to me to be first principles. You surely will 
 not say I am bound to read such books. If a man 
 tells me he has a very elaborate argument to prove 
 that two and two make five, I have something else 
 to do than to attend to this argument. If I find the 
 first mouthful of meat which I take from a fine look- 
 ing joint on my table is tainted, I need not eat through 
 it to be convinced I ought to throw it away. 
 
 THE LIFE BOAT. 
 
 'Tis sweet to behold, when the billows are sleeping. 
 Some gay coloured bark moving gracefully by, 
 
 No damp on her deck, but the eventide's weeping, 
 No breath in her sails but the summer wind's sigh* 
 
 Yet who would not turn, with a fonder emotion, 
 To gaze on the life-boat, though rugged and wora^ 
 
 Which often hath wafted, o'er hills of the ocean, 
 The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn I 
 
 Oh ! grant that of those who, in life's sunny slumber? 
 
 Around us like summer barks idly have played. 
 When storms are abroad we may find in the number 
 
 One friend hke the life-boat to fly to our aid I 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 123 
 
 THE RED SaUIRREL. 
 
 The pretty red squin-el lives up in a tree, 
 
 A little blithe creature as ever can be, 
 
 He dwells in the boughs where the stockdove 
 
 broods, 
 Far in the shade of the green summer v/oods. 
 His food is the young juicy cones of the pine. 
 And the milky beech nut is his bread and his wine* 
 In the joy of his heart, he frisks with a bound 
 To the topmost twig, then down to the ground, 
 Then up again like a winged thing. 
 And from tree to tree with a vaulting spring ; 
 Then he sits up aloft and looks waggish and queer, 
 As if he would say, " Ay, follow me here !" 
 And then he grows pettish and stam.ps with his foot. 
 And then independently he cracks his nut. 
 
 But small as he is, he knows he may want 
 In the bleak winter weather w^hen food is so scant. 
 So he finds a hole in an old tree's core, 
 And there makes his nest, and lays up his store ; 
 Then when cold winter comes and the trees are bare, 
 When the white snow is falling and keen is the air ; 
 He heeds it not as he sits by himself 
 In his warm little nest, with his nuts on the shelf. 
 Oh ! wise little squiiTel ! no wonder that he 
 In the green summer woods is as blithe as can be. 
 
 THE CHARACTER OF THE AMERICAN INDIAN. 
 
 In the fate of the Aboiigines of our country — the 
 American Indians — there is, my friends, much to 
 
124 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 awaken our sympathy, and much to disturb the so- 
 briety of our judgment ; much which may be urged 
 to excuse their own atrocities ; much in their charac- 
 ters, which betrays us into an involuntary admiration. 
 What can be more melancholy than their history? 
 Two centuries ago, the smoke of their wigwams, and 
 the fires of their councils rose in every valley, from 
 Hudson's Bay to the farthest Florida, from the ocean 
 to the Mississippi and the Lakes. The shouts of vic- 
 tory and the war-dance rung through the mountains 
 and the glades. The thick arrows and the deadly 
 tomahawk whistled through the forests ; and the hun- 
 ter's trace, and the dark encampment startled the 
 wild beasts in their lairs. The warriors stood forth 
 in their glory. The young listened to the songs of 
 other days. The mothers played with their infants, 
 and gazed on the scene with warm hopes of the fu- 
 ture. Braver men never lived ; truer men never 
 drew the bow. They had courage, and fortitude, 
 and sagacity, and perseverance, beyond most of the 
 human race. They shrunk from no dangers, and 
 they feared no hardships. 
 
 If they had the vices of savage life, they had the 
 virtues also. They were true to their country, their 
 friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, 
 neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance 
 was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were uncon- 
 querable also. Their love, like their hate, stopped 
 not on this side of the grave. But where are they ? 
 Where are the villages and warriors, and youth ? 
 The sachems and the tribes ? The hunters and 
 their families'? They have perished. They are 
 consumed. The wasting pestilence has not alone 
 done the mighty work. No, — nor famine, nor war. 
 There has been a mightier power, a moral canker. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 125 
 
 which hath eaten into their heart-cores — a pi ague, which 
 the touch of the white man communicated — a poison, 
 which betrayed them into a hngering ruin. The 
 winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region which 
 they may now call their own. Already the last fee- 
 ble remnants of the race are preparing for their jour- 
 ney beyond the Mississippi. I see them leave their 
 miserable homes, the aged, the helpless, the women, 
 and the warriors, "few and faint, yet fearless still.'* 
 The ashes are cold on their native hearths. The 
 smoke no longer curls round their lowly cabins. 
 They move on with a slow, unsteady step. The 
 white man is upon their heels, for terror or despatch ; 
 but they heed him not. They turn to take a last 
 look of their deserted villages. They cast a last 
 glance upon the graves of their fathers. They shed 
 no tears ; they utter no cries ; they heave no groans. 
 There is something in their hearts which passes 
 speech. There is something in their looks, not of ven- 
 geance or submission ; but of hard necessity, which 
 stifles both ; which chokes all utterance ; which has 
 no aim or method. It is courage absorbed in des- 
 pair. They linger but for a moment. Their look 
 is onward. They have passed the fatal stream. It 
 shall never be repassed by them, — no, never. Yet 
 there lies not between us and them an impassable 
 gulf. They know, and feel, that there is for them 
 still one remove farther, not distant nor unseen. It 
 is to the general burial-ground of their race. 
 
 11* 
 
126 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 THE CHARACTER AND EXTIRPATION OP THE 
 INDIANS. 
 
 Roll back the tide of time ; how powerfully to us 
 applies the promise : '^ I will give thee the heathen 
 for an inheritance.'^ Not many generations ago, 
 where you now sit, circled with all that exahs and em- 
 bellishes civilized life, the rank thistle nodded in the 
 wind, and the wild fox dug his hole unscared. 
 Here lived and loved another race of beings. Be- 
 neath the same sun that rolls over your heads, the In- 
 dian hunter pursued the panting deer ; gazing on the 
 same moon that smiles for you, the Indian lover 
 wooed his dusky mate. Here the wigwam blaze 
 beamed on the tender and helpless, the council fire 
 glared on the wise and daring. Now they dipped their 
 noble limbs in your sedgy* lakes, and now they pad- 
 dled the light canoe along your rocky shores. Here 
 they v/arred ; the echoing whoop, the bloody grapple, 
 the defying death-song, all were here ; and when the 
 tiger strife was over, here curled the smoke of peace. 
 Here, too, they worshipped ; and from many a dark 
 bosom went up a pure prayer to the Great Spirit. 
 He had not written his laws for them on tables of 
 stone, but He had traced them on the tables of their 
 hearts. The poor child of nature knew not the God 
 of revelation, but the God of the universe he acknow- 
 ledged in every thing around. He beheld him in the 
 star that sunk in beauty behind his lonely dwelling ; 
 in the sacred orb that flamed on him from his mid- 
 day throne ; in the flower that snapped in the morn- 
 ing breeze ; in the lofty pine, that defied a thousand 
 whirlwinds ; in the timid warbler that never left its 
 
 * Sed^y — overgrown with narrow flags. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER, 127 
 
 native grove ; in the fearless eagle, whose untired 
 pinion was wet in clouds ; in the worm that crawled 
 at his foot ; and in his own matchless form, glowing 
 with a spark of that light, to whose mysterious source 
 he bent, in humble, though blind adoration. 
 
 And all this has passed away. Across the ocean 
 came a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and 
 death. The former were sown for you ; the latter 
 sprang up in the path of the simple native. Two 
 hundred years have changed the character of a 
 great continent, and blotted for ever from its face a 
 whole, peculiar people. Art has usurped the bow- 
 ers of nature, and the anointed children of education 
 have been too powerful for the tribes of the ignorant. 
 Here and there a stricken few remain, but how un- 
 like their bold, untauieable progenitors ; The Indian^ 
 of falcon glance, and lion bearing, the theme of the 
 touching ballad, the hero of the pathetic tale, is 
 gone ! and his degraded offspring crawl upon the 
 soil where he walked in majesty, to remind ns how 
 miserable is man when the foot of the conqueror is 
 on his neck. 
 
 As a race, they have withered from the land. Their 
 arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, their 
 cabins are in the dust. Their council fire has long 
 since gone out on the shore, and their war-cry is fast 
 dying to the untrodden west. Slowly and sadly they 
 climb the distant mountains, and read their doom in 
 the setting sun. They are shrinking before the 
 mighty tide which is pressing them away ; they must 
 soon hear the roar of the last wave, which will settle 
 over them for ever. Ages hence, the inquisitive 
 white man, as he stands by some growing city, will 
 ponder on the structure of their disturbed remains, 
 and wonder to v/hat manner of person they belonged. 
 
128 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 They will live only in the songs and chronicles of 
 their exterminators. Let these be faithful to their 
 rude virtues as men, and pay due tribute to their un- 
 happy fate as a people. 
 
 THE HUMA.* 
 
 Fly on, nor touch thy wing, bright bird, 
 
 Too near our shaded earth, 
 Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard, 
 
 May lose its note of mirth. 
 Fly on, nor seek a place of rest 
 
 In the home of " care-worn things ;'' 
 'Twould dim the light of thy shining crest. 
 
 And thy brightly burnished wings, 
 To dip them where the waters glide 
 That flow from a troubled earthly tide., 
 
 The fields of upper air are thine, 
 
 Thy place where stars shine free ; 
 I would thy home, bright one, were mine. 
 
 Above life's stormy sea. 
 I would never wander, bird, like thee, 
 
 So near this place again ; 
 With wing and spirit once light and free. 
 
 They should wear no more the chain 
 With which they are bound and fettered here. 
 For ever struggling for skies more clear. 
 
 There are many things like thee, bright bird ; 
 Hopes as thy plumage gay ; 
 
 * "A bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly con- 
 stantly in the air, and never touch the ground." 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 129 
 
 Our air is with them for ever stirred, 
 
 But still in air they stay. 
 And Happiness, Hke thee, fair one, 
 
 Is ever hovering o'er. 
 But rests in a land of brighter sun, 
 
 On a waveless, peacefjl shore, 
 And stoops to lave her weary wings, 
 Where the fount of " living waters" springs. 
 
 ON GAMING. 
 
 Whence sprung th' accursed lust of play, 
 Wliich beggars thousands in a day ? 
 Speak, sorc'ress speak, for thou canst tell. 
 Who calPd the treach'rous card from hell : 
 Now man profanes his reasoning powers, 
 Profanes sweet friendship's sacred hours ; 
 Abandon'd to inglorious ends, 
 And faithless to himself and friends ; 
 A dupe to every artful knave, 
 To every abject wish a slave : 
 But who against himself combines. 
 Abets his enemy's designs. 
 
 When rapine meditates a blow. 
 He shares the guilt who aids the foe. 
 Is man a thief who steals my pelf — 
 How great his theft who robs himself! 
 Is murder justly deem'd a crime ] 
 How black his guilt who murders time ! 
 
130 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 THE WOUNDED EAGLE. 
 
 Eagle ! this is not thy sphere ! 
 Warrior bird, what seek'st thou here ? 
 Wherefore by the fountain's brink 
 Doth thy royal pinion sink ] 
 Wherefore on the violet's bed 
 Layest thou thus thy drooping head ? 
 Thou, that hold'st the blast in scorn, 
 Thou, that wear'st the wings of morn ? 
 
 Eagle ! wilt thou not arise ? 
 Look upon thine own bright skies ! 
 Lift thy glance ! — the fiery sun 
 There his pride of place hath won, 
 And the mounting lark is there. 
 And sweet sound hath filled the air, 
 Hast thou left that realm on high ? 
 — Oh, it can be but to die ! 
 
 Eagle, Eagle ! thou hast bowed 
 From thine empire o'er the cloud ! 
 Thou that hadst ethereal birth. 
 Thou hast stooped too near the earth, 
 And the hunter's shaft hath found thee, 
 And the toils of death have bound thee ! 
 — ^Wherefore did'st thou leave thy place, 
 Creature of a kingly race ? 
 
 Wert thou weary of thy throne ? 
 Was the sky's dominion lone ? 
 Chill and lone it well might be, 
 Yet that mighty wing was free ! 
 Now the chain is o'er it cast. 
 From thy heart the blood flows fast. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 131 
 
 — ^T\''oe for gifted souls on high ! 
 Is not such tlieir destiny ? 
 
 MONITIONS ON THE FLIGHT OF TIME. 
 
 Whatever we see on every side reminds us of 
 the lapse of time and the flux of life. The day and 
 night succeed each other, the rotation of seasons di- 
 versifies the year, the sun rises, attains the meridian, 
 dechnes, and sets ; and the moon every night chang- 
 es its form. 
 
 The dav has been considered as an imao-e of the 
 year, and the year as the representation of life. 
 The morning answers to the spring, and the spring 
 to childhood and youth; the noon corresponds to 
 the summer, and the summer to the strength of man- 
 hood. 
 
 The evening is an emblem of autumn, and autumn 
 of dechnino; life. The ni^ht uith its silence and dark- 
 ness shows the mnter, in which all the powers of vege- 
 tation are benumbed; and the winter points out the time 
 when life shall cease, ^\ith its hopes and pleasures. 
 
 He that is carried forward, however swiftly, by 
 a motion equable and easy, perceives not the 
 change of place but by the variation of objects. If 
 the wheel of life, Vv'hich rolls thus silently along, 
 passed on through undistinguishable uniformity, we 
 should never mark its approaches to the end of the 
 course. 
 
 If one hour were like another ; if the passage of 
 the sun did not show that the day is wasting ; if the 
 change of seasons did not impress upon us the flight 
 
132 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 of the year; quantities of duration equal to days and 
 years would glide unobserved. 
 
 If the parts of time were not variously coloured, 
 we should never discern their departure, or succes- 
 sion, but should hve thoughtless of the past, and 
 careless of the future, without will, and perhaps with- 
 out power, to compute the periods of life, or to com- 
 pare the time which is already lost with that which 
 may probably remain. 
 
 But the course of time is so visibly marked, that it 
 is observed even by the birds of passage and by na- 
 tions who have raised their minds very little above 
 animal instinct. 
 
 There are human beings whose language does not 
 supply them with words by which they can number 
 jfive, but I have read of none that have not names for 
 day and night, for summer and winter. 
 
 Yet it is certain that these admonitions of nature, 
 however forcible, however importunate, are too often 
 vain ; and that many who mark with such accuracy 
 the course of time, appear to have little sensibility of 
 the decline of life : every man has something to do 
 which he neglects ; every man has faults to conquer 
 which he delays to combat. 
 
 So little do we accustom ourselves to. consider the 
 effects of time, that things necessary and certain 
 often surprise us like unexpected contingencies. 
 We leave the beauty in her bloom, and after an ab- 
 sence of twenty years, wonder, at our return, to find 
 her faded. 
 
 We meet those whom we left children, and can 
 scarcely persuade ourselves to treat them as men. 
 
 From this inattention, so general and so mischiev- 
 ous, let it be every man's study to exempt himself. 
 Let him that desires to see others happy make haste 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 133 
 
 to give wliile his gift caa be enjoyed, and remember 
 that every moment of delay takes away something 
 from the value of his benefaction. 
 
 And let him, who purposes his own happiness, re- 
 flect, that while he forms his purpose the day rolls on, 
 and the nicj;ht cometh when no man can work. 
 
 THE AIR. 
 
 No term is more familiar to every body than the 
 term air. But if an uninstructed person were asked 
 w4iat the air was, his first answer would probably be, 
 that it was nothing at all. This hand, he might say, 
 which is now plunged in water, on being drawn out 
 of the \^ter is said to be lifted into the air — which 
 means merely that there is nothing, or only vacancy, 
 around it. In other words, he might say, the air is 
 just the name that is given to the empty space, w^hich 
 is immediately over the surface of the earth. 
 
 A little reflection, however, or a question or two 
 more, would probably raise some doubts as to the 
 correctness of this philosophy. If the air be nothing, 
 it might be asked, what is the wind? Or Vvhat is it, 
 even when there is no v/ind, which makes very light 
 substances wave or flutter on being dravvn through 
 the air, or when they are merely dropped from the 
 hand, detains them on their way to the ground? Or, 
 to take another iliustration fi*om the commonest ex- 
 perience, v/ho is there that has not seen a bladder 
 distended or swollen with the air 1 If the air be no- 
 thing, how comes a portion of it to present such pal- 
 pable resistance to pressure, when thus confined ? 
 
 The truth is, the air in which we walk is as much 
 12 
 
134 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 a real and substantial part of our world as the earth 
 on which we walk. Empty space would no more do 
 for our bodies to live in, than it would for our feet to 
 tread upon. The atmosphere, that is, the case of 
 air in which the sohd globe is enveloped, is compos- 
 ed of matter as well as that solid globe itself. As 
 the one is matter in a solid, so the other is matter in 
 a fluid state. It is merely a thinner fluid than water, 
 which also rests upon and encompasses a great part 
 of the earth ; but as fishes exist and can only exist 
 in their ocean of water, so do we exist and can exist 
 only in our ocean of air. 
 
 THE VISIBLE FIRMAMENT. 
 
 If the sun, at the same distance it now is, were 
 larger, it would light the whole world, but it would 
 consume it with heat. If it were smaller, the earth 
 would be all ice, and could not be inhabited by men. 
 What compass has been stretched from heaven to 
 earth, and taken such measurements ? The changes 
 of the sun make the variety of the seasons, which we 
 find so deUghtful. 
 
 The spring checks the cold winds, wakens the 
 flowers, and gives the promise of fruits. The sum- 
 mer brings the riches of the harvest. The autumn 
 displays the fruits that spring has promised. Win- 
 ter, which is the night of the year, treasures up all 
 its riches, only in order that the following spring 
 may bring them forth with new beauty. Thus na- 
 ture, so variously adorned, presents alternately her 
 beautiful changes, that man may never cease to ad- 
 mire. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 135 
 
 Let US look up again at the immense concave 
 above us, where sparkle the countless stars. If it 
 be solid, who is the architect? Who is it that has 
 fastened in it, at regular distances, such grand and lu- 
 minous bodies 1 Who makes this vaulted sky to turn 
 round us so regularly ? 
 
 If, on the contrary, the heavens are only immense 
 spaces, filled with fluid bodies, like the air that sur- 
 rounds us, how^ is it that so many solid bodies float 
 in it, without interfering one with another ? After so 
 many ages that men have been making astronomical 
 observations, they have discovered no derangement 
 in the heavens. Can a fluid body give such a con- 
 stant and regular order to the substances that float on 
 its bosom ? But what is this almost countless multi- 
 tude of stars for ? God has sown them in the hea- 
 vens, as a magnificent prince would adorn his gar- 
 ments with precious stones. 
 
 COWPER, ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S 
 PICTURE. 
 
 O THAT those lips had language ! Life has pass'd 
 
 With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
 
 Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see. 
 
 The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me ; 
 
 Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
 
 " Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !" 
 
 The meek intelligence of those dear eyes, 
 
 (Blest be the art that can immortalize, 
 
 The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
 
 To quench it,) here shines on me still the same. 
 
136 READER AND SPEAKER, 
 
 My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
 Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
 Wretch even then, hfe's journey just begun ? 
 Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in biiss — 
 Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
 I heard the bell toli'd on thy burial day, 
 I saw the hearse, that bore thee slow away. 
 And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu? 
 But was it such? — It was. — Where thou art gone 
 Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
 May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
 The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! 
 Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, 
 Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
 What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd, 
 And disappointed still, was still deceiv'd, 
 By expectation ev'ry day beguii'd 
 Dupe of to-morrovj even from a child. 
 Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
 Till all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
 I learn'd at last submission to my lot, 
 But though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. 
 
 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, 
 Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor ; 
 And where the gard'ner, Robin, day by day, 
 Drew me to school along the public way. 
 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 
 'Tis now become a hist'ry little known, 
 That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. 
 Short-liv'd possession ! but the record fair, 
 
READER AND SPEAKER,' 137 
 
 That raem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there, 
 
 Still outlives many a storm, that has efFac'd 
 
 A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. 
 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
 
 That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ; 
 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
 
 The biscuit, or confectionary plum, 
 
 The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd 
 
 By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd : 
 
 All this, and more endearing still than all. 
 
 Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall. 
 
 Ne'er roughen' d by those cataracts and breaks. 
 
 That humour interpos'd too often makes ; 
 
 And this still legible in memory's page. 
 
 And still to be so to my latest age, 
 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
 
 Such honours to thee as my numbers may : 
 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere. 
 
 Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though little notic'd here. 
 
 Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, 
 
 When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs. 
 
 The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
 
 I prick'd them into paper with a pin, 
 
 (And thou wast happier than myself the v;hile, 
 
 Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile,) 
 
 Could those few pleasant days ao^ain appear, 
 
 Might one wish bring them, would I \vish them here ? 
 
 I would not trust my heart — the dear dehght 
 
 Seems so to be desird, perhaps I might — 
 
 But no — what here we call our Kfe is such. 
 
 So little to be lov'd, and thou so much. 
 
 That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
 
 Thy unbound spirit into bonds again, 
 
 12* 
 
138 READER AND SPEAKER* 
 
 THE TEMPTING MOMENT. 
 " Do to others as ye would they should do to you." — Bible, 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! " shouted John Harris, and ran laugh- 
 ing down the street. " What do you guess I have 
 seen, boys ? Old aunt Miffin is fast asleep over her 
 pail of blueberries. Come softly, softly, boys, and 
 we will have fine fun." 
 
 The boys all run on tiptoe to the corner whpre 
 aunt Miffin, as she was called, usually sat when she 
 came to the village to sell fruit. She was old and 
 very poor, but she was a good woman, and always 
 kind to children ; and John Harris was her especial 
 favourite. She loved him for the sake of his grand- 
 mother, who had been the friend of her youth, and 
 many a ripe red apple, and many a roll of ginger- 
 bread, had aunt Miffin brought to John when he was 
 a tiny boy. As he grew larger, she gave him such 
 playthings as boys like — a ball, which she had made 
 herself, and a kite which she hired Ben Purdy to 
 make, and paid him by hemming his handkerchief. 
 And then she once gave John a bright ten cent 
 piece to spend at Independence ; and the new-year's 
 day after he was ten years old, she presented him 
 with a choice little book of " Hymns for Good Chil- 
 dren." 
 
 Why did John Harris seek to injure aunt Miffin ? 
 It was sim.ply because he liked fun and frolic. He 
 was not a malicious or cruel boy. He did not really 
 intend to injure any one ; but he was mischievous 
 and thoughtless ; and by indulging his propensities 
 for fun he often caused great distress to those per- 
 sons whom he really loved. Then, when he found 
 how much trouble he had given his friends, he would 
 
READER ANI> SPEAKER. 139 
 
 be very sorry for a short time, and promise that he 
 never would be guilty of such conduct again. But 
 alas ! his promises seemed only made to be broken 
 — all because he would not remember his good reso- 
 lutions. 
 
 When the little boys reached the pail of fruit, they 
 each one grasped a handful, and began eating as 
 though they were eager to swallow the Vv^hole. But 
 John did not care for the blueberries ; he only want- 
 ed the fun of seeing aunt Miffin wake up and catch 
 the rogues at their feast. So he stooped dovvn, and 
 crept softly to the pail, and just touched the fruit with 
 his fingers, looking all the time in the face of aunt 
 Miffin, and ready to burst into a laugh the moment 
 she should open her eyes. 
 
 But the poor old woman slept soundly. She was 
 unwell, and very tired, and several times as she came 
 along, trembling under her load of blueberries, she 
 had thought it might be the last time she should go to 
 the village. She intended, after selling her fruit, to 
 buy her some medicine, ond a few crackers, and a 
 little tea, (she was very fond of tea) — " and perhaps," 
 said she to herself, " I shall feel better when I have 
 drank my cup of tea. And I will ask John Harris 
 to come home with me and kindle my fire, for he is 
 a good-natured boy ; and then I will give him the 
 holy Bible I have laid up for him. It may be that he 
 will read it oftener if I tell him what a blessed book 
 it is, and how its promises have supported me in sick- 
 ness and sorrow. I will tell him that God never for- 
 sakes those who trust in the promises of the Bible. 
 I have walked in the light of the gospel these seventy 
 years, and though my path through the world has ap- 
 peared to be rough and v/eary, yet I have been happy, 
 for I could always see that in this v/av the Saviour 
 
140 HEADER AND SPEAKER* 
 
 was leading me to heaven. ! that I might meet John 
 Harris in heaven, where I feel sure his pious grand- 1 
 mother is now rejoicing." 
 
 Such were the thoughts of this poor but good wo- ' 
 man, as she tottered along with her pail of blueberries. 
 How she would have grieved had she known that 
 John Harris, whom she loved so dearly, would be 
 the means of robbing her of the fruit she had taken | 
 such pains to gather ! And how she v/ouid have 
 sorrowed, too, when she reflected that this boy, for ; 
 whom she had so often heard his pious grandmother 
 pray, should be guilty of the sin of stealing ! 
 
 I know that some children will not think there 
 could be much harm in such a frolic. They will say, 
 perhaps, that the boys ought to pay aunt Miffin for 
 the berries, and then it would be no matter if they did 
 eat them up while she was asleep. 
 
 Would you, my dear children, be willing that any 
 person should do thus by you ? — come and steal away 
 the things you owned and had worked for, while you 
 were asleep 1 
 
 This practice of taking things which are not your 
 own, even though it may be done in sport, is very 
 dangerous and wicked ; and it may lead to confirmed 
 habits of pilfering and dishonesty. 
 
 Well, poor aunt Miffin slept, and while John Harris 
 was watching for her to wake and scream out, and 
 frighten the mischievous urchins, they kept eating 
 and eating, till the berries were all devoured. This 
 was a case that John had not expected ; he looked 
 up cross and threatening on the children, and espe- 
 cially on great Dan Jones, who, besides eating all he 
 could cram, had stuffed his pockets full and run away. 
 
 " Stop ! stop ! Dan, you villain," shouted John, 
 « Stop ! " 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 141 
 
 The noise startled aunt Miffin, but before she 
 could get her eyes fairly opened, the whole troop had 
 run off, and were out of sight ; all but Nancy Dame, 
 who could not run away, because she had her baby 
 brother in her arms, and her little blind sister holding 
 by her gown. 
 
 " Nancy Dame — 0, ^vhy did you eat all my blue- 
 berries ? " said aunt Miffin, shaking her head. 
 
 " 1 did not eat your berries, hardly one of them ; 
 only the boys put some into the baby's hand ;" re- 
 plied Nancy, almost crying, for she loved aunt Miffin, 
 who had always been very kind to her. 
 
 " My dear child, who has eat them 1" 
 
 " The boys, all the boys — Sam Draper, and Ezra 
 Bond, and Seth Young, and Dan Jones, and John 
 Harris'^— 
 
 " Who ] John Harris, did you say ?" screamed 
 out the poor woman. " I know he would not touch 
 a single berry in my basket." 
 
 " But, aunt Miffin, he was the first who saw you 
 asleep, and he called the boys, I heard him call them, 
 and say it would be fine fun ; and he let them eat the 
 berries all up,*' said Nancy. 
 
 Aunt Miffin's heart was full ofsoiTOW. She did 
 not think much about the loss of the berries, but she 
 grieved that John Harris, her good hoy, as she often 
 called him, should have been so unkind, so ungrate- 
 ful. She wept — that aged and feeble woman wept 
 and sobbed like a little child, as she took up her 
 empty pail, and slow^ly turned her steps to her lowly 
 and lonely home. 
 
 The next morning early John Harris rapped at her 
 door ; he had thought of his frolic after he went to 
 bed, and he felt sorry that he had injured aunt 
 Miffin ; and he had determined to go early in the 
 
142 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 morning, and offer to pick her another pail of blue- 
 berries. 
 
 He rapped at the door ; but she did not bid him 
 come in ; she could not speak. She had been 
 sick, very sick all night ; and now felt that she was 
 dying. 
 
 John Harris at last opened the door softly, and 
 went in ; but when he saw the pale and ghostly coun- 
 tenance of aunt Miffin, he shrinked in horror. He 
 thought she was dead. 
 
 " O, John, you have come to comfort me, I know 
 you have," said aunt Miffin, faintly, as she reached 
 out her cold and trembling hand to him. " John, I 
 am dying," she continued. 
 
 John was a courageous boy, but he was frightened 
 now. He had never seen any person die. He 
 snatched his hand away from the feeble woman, and 
 ran like a mad creature, first to his mother, and told 
 her that aunt Miffin was dying, and then he ran, of 
 his own accord, to call the doctor. He sobbed so 
 that the doctor could hardly understand what he want- 
 ed ; he was beseeching the doctor to cure aunt 
 Miffin. But this was beyond his skill. ^ 
 
 The old woman died that day. She forgave John 
 Harris and the other boys, and prayed that (xod would 
 forgive them also for the sin of steahng her berries ; 
 and she gave John the bible she had long intended 
 for him. 
 
 " Remember, my dear John," said she, as she 
 placed the bible in his hand, " remember that we are 
 commanded to do to others as we would have them 
 do to us : — think of this command, obey this com- 
 mand, and then you will never injure or insult the 
 unfortunate, the poor, or the aged." 
 
 11* 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 143 
 
 DEVOTION OF LAFAYETTE TO THE CAUSE OP 
 AMERICA. 
 
 While we bring our offerings for the mighty of 
 our own land, shall we not remember the chivalrous 
 spirits of other shores, who shared with them the hour 
 of weakness and woe ? Pile to the clouds the majes- 
 tic columns of glory, let the lips of those who can 
 speak well, hallow each spot where the bones of 
 your Bold repose ; but forget not those who with 
 your Bold went out to battle. 
 
 Among these men of noble daring, there M^as One, 
 a young and gallant stranger, who left the blushing 
 vine-hills of his delightful France. The people 
 whom he came to succour, were not his people ; he 
 knew them only in the wicked story of their wrongs. 
 He was no mercenary wretch, striving for the spoil 
 of the vanquished ; the palace acknowledged him 
 for its lord, and the valley yielded him its increase. 
 He was no nameless man, staking life for reputa- 
 tion ; he ranked among nobles, and looked unawed 
 upon kings. He was no friendless outcast, seeking 
 for a grave to hide his cold heart ; he was girdled 
 by the companions of his childhood, his kinsmen 
 were about him, his wife was before him. 
 
 Yet from all these he turned away, and came. 
 Like a lofty tree, that shakes down its green glories 
 to battle with the winter storm, he flung aside the 
 trappings of place and pride, to crusade for freedom, 
 in freedom's holy land. He came — but not in the 
 day of successful rebellion, not when the new-risen 
 sun of independence had burst the cloud of time, 
 and careered to its place in the heavens. He came 
 when darkness curtained the hills, and the tempest 
 
144 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 was abroad in its anger ; when the plough stood still | 
 in the field of promise, and briers cumbered the gar- 
 den of beauty ; when fathers were dying, and mo- 
 thers were weeping over them ; when the wife was 
 binding up the gashed bosom of her husband, and 
 the maiden was wiping the death-damp from the 
 brow of her lover. He came v^hen the brave began 
 to fear the power of man, and the pious to doubt the 
 favour of God. 
 
 It was then that this One joined the ranks of a re- 
 volted people. Freedom's little phalanx bade him fa 
 grateful welcome. With them he courted the bat- 
 tle's rage, with tiieir's his arm was lifted ; with their's 
 his blood was shed^ Long and doubtful was the 
 conflict. At length kind heaven smiled on the good 
 cause, and the beaten invaders fled. The profane 
 were driven from the temple of liberty, and at her 
 pure shrine the pilgrim warrior, with his adored com- 
 mander, knelt and worshipped. Leaving there his 
 offering, the incense of an uncorrupted spirit, he at 
 length rose up, and, crowned with benedictions, turn- 
 ed his happy feet tov/ards his long-deserted home. 
 
 After nearly fifty years that One has come again. 
 Can mortal tongue tell, can mortal heart feel, the 
 sublimity of that coming 1 Exulting millions rejoice 
 in it, and their loud, long, transporting: shout, like 
 the mingling of many winds, rolls on, undying, to free- 
 dom's farthest mountains. A congregated nation 
 comes round him. Old men bless him, and children 
 reverence him. The lovely come out to look upon 
 him, the learned deck their halls to greet him, the 
 rulers of the land rise up to do him homage. How 
 his full heart labours ! He views the rusting trophies 
 of departed days, he treads the high places where his 
 brethren moulder, he bends before the tomb of his 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 145 
 
 "Father:" — his words are tears: the speech of 
 sad remembrance. But he looks round upon a ran- 
 somed land and a joyous race ; he beholds the 
 blessings those trophies secured, for which those 
 brethren died, for which that " Father" lived ; and 
 again his words are tears ; the eloquence of grati- 
 tude and joy. 
 
 Spread forth creation like a map ; bid earth's dead 
 multitude revwe ;— and of all the pageant splendours 
 that ever gUttered to the sun, when looked his burn- 
 ing eye on a sight like this 1 Of all the myriads that 
 have come and gone, what cherished minion ever 
 ruled an hour like this 1 Many have struck the re- 
 deeming blow for their own freedom ; but who, like 
 this man, has bared his bosom in the cause of stran- 
 gers ? Others have lived in the love of their own 
 people, but who, like this man, has drank his sweetest 
 cup of welcome with another 1 Matchless chief ! of 
 glory's immortal tablets, there is one for him, for 
 him alone ! Oblivion shall never shroud its splen- 
 dour ; the everlasting flame of liberty shall guard it, 
 that the generations of men may repeat the name re- 
 corded there, the beloved name of La Fayette ! 
 
 THE POWER OP ELOaUENCE. 
 
 Heard ye those loud contending waves, 
 That shook Cecropia's piliar'd state I 
 
 Saw ye the mighty from their graves 
 Look up and tremble at her fate ? 
 
 Who shall calm the angry storm 1 
 
 Who the mighty task perform, 
 13 
 
146 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 And bid the raging tumult cease ? 
 See the son of Hermes rise ; 
 With syren tongue and speaking eyes, 
 
 Hush the noise and soothe to peace ! 
 
 Lo ! from the regions of the north, 
 The reddening storm of battle pours ; 
 
 Rolls along the trembling earth. 
 Fastens on Olynthian towers. 
 
 " Where rests the sword 1 — where sleeps the brave ? 
 Awake ! Cecropia's ally save 
 
 From the fury of the blast ; 
 Burst the storm on Phocis's walls ; 
 Rise ! or Greece for ever falls, 
 
 Up ! or freedom breathes her last !" 
 
 The jarring states obsequious now, 
 
 View the patriot's hand on high ; 
 Thunder gathering on his brow ; 
 
 Lightning flashing from his eye ! 
 
 Borne by the tide of words along. 
 
 One voice, one mind, inspire the throng : 
 
 " To arms ! to arms ! to arms !" they cry, 
 " Grasp the shield, and draw the sword, 
 Lead us to Phihppi's lord. 
 
 Let us conquer him — or die 1" 
 
 Ah eloquence ! thou wast undone ; 
 
 Wast from thy native country driven. 
 When tyranny eclipsed the sun, 
 
 And blotted out the stars of heaven* 
 
w 
 
 READER AND SPEAKER. 147 
 
 When liberty from Greece withdrew, 
 And o'er the Adriatic flew, 
 
 To where the Tiber pours his urn, 
 She struck the rude Tarpeian rock ; 
 Sparks were kindled by the shock — 
 
 Again thy fires began to burn ! 
 
 Now, shining forth, thou madest compliant. 
 The conscript fathers to thy charms ; 
 
 Roused the world-bestriding giant, 
 Sinking fast in slavery's arms ! 
 
 I see thee stand by freedom's fane. 
 Pouring the persuasive strain. 
 
 Giving vast conceptions birth : 
 Hark ! I hear thy thunder's sound, 
 
 Shake the forum round and round — 
 Shake the pillars of the earth ! 
 
 First-born of liberty divine ! 
 
 Put on religion's bright array ; 
 Speak ! and the starless grave shall shine. 
 
 The portal of eternal day ! 
 
 Rise, kindling with the orient beam ; 
 Let Calvary's hill inspire the theme ! 
 
 Unfold the garments rolled in blood ! ' 
 O touch the soul, touch all her chords, 
 With all the omnipotence of v/ords, 
 
 And point the way to heaven — to God. 
 
148 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 COLONEL ISAAC HAYNES. 
 
 After the city of Charleston had fallen into the 
 hands of Lord Cornwallis, his lordship issued a pro- 
 clamation, requiring of the inhabitants of the colony 
 that they should no longer take part in the contest, 
 but continue peaceably at their homes, and they 
 should be most sacredly protected in property and 
 person. 
 
 This was accompanied with an instrument of 
 neutrality, which soon obtained the signatures of 
 many thousands of the citizens of South Carolina, 
 among whom was Colonel Haynes, who now con- 
 ceived that he was entitled to peace and security for 
 his family and fortune. 
 
 But it was not long before Cornwallis put a 
 new construction on the instrument of neutrality, de- 
 nominating it a bond of allegiance to the king, and 
 called upon all who had signed it to take up arms 
 against the Rebels ! threatening to treat as deserters 
 those who refused ! This fraudulent proceeding 
 in Lord Cornwallis roused the indignation of every 
 honourable and honest m.an. 
 
 Colonel Haynes now being compelled, in vio- 
 lation of the most solemn compact, to take up arms, 
 resolved that the invaders of his native country 
 should be the objects of his vengeance. He with- 
 drew from the British, and was invested with a com- 
 mand in the continental service ; but it was soon his 
 hard fortune to be captured by the enemy and carried 
 into Charleston. 
 
 Lord Rawdon, the commandant, immediately 
 ordered him to be loaded with irons, and after a sort 
 of a mock trial, he was sentenced to be hung ! This 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 149 
 
 sentence seized all classes of people with horror and 
 dismay. A petition, headed by the British Governor 
 Bull, and signed by a number of royalists, was pre- 
 sented in his behalf, but Vv'as totally disregarded. 
 
 The ladies of Charleston, both whigs and tories, 
 now united in a petition to Lord Rawdon, couched 
 in the most eloquent and moving language, praying 
 that the valuable life of Colonel Haynes might be 
 spared ; but this also was treated with neglect. It 
 was next proposed that Colonel Haynes's children 
 (the mother had recently deceased,) should, in their 
 mourning habiliments, be presented to plead for the 
 life of their only surviving parent. 
 
 Being introduced into his presence, they fell 
 on their knees, and with clasped hands and weeping 
 eyes they lisped their father's name and pleaded 
 most earnestly for his life, but in vain : the unfeeling 
 man was still inexorable ! His son, a youth of 
 thirteen, was permitted to stay with his father in 
 prison, who beholding his only parent loaded with 
 irons and condemned to die, was overwhelmed in 
 grief and sorrow. 
 
 " Why," said he, " my son, will you thus break 
 your father's heart with unavailing sorrow ? Have 
 I not often told you we came into this world to pre- 
 pare for a better 1 For that better life, my dear boy, 
 your father is prepared. Instead then of weeping, 
 rejoice with me, my son, that my troubles are so near 
 an end. To-morrow I set out for immortality. 
 You will accompany me to the place of my execu- 
 tion, and, when I am dead, take and bury me by the 
 side of your mother." 
 
 The youth here i^ell on his father's neck, cry- 
 ing, " my father ! my father ! I will die with you ! 
 I will die with you !" Colonel Haynes would have 
 13^ 
 
150 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 returned the strong embrace of his son, but alas ! 
 his hands were confined with irons. " Live," said 
 he, " my son, live to honour God by a good life, live 
 to serve your country ; and live to take care of your 
 little sisters and brother !" 
 
 The next morning Colonel Haynes was con- 
 ducted to the place of execution. His son accom- 
 panied him. Soon as they came in sight of the 
 gallows, the father strengthened himself, and said — 
 ^^ JYoio, my son, shoiv yourself a man ! That tree is 
 the boundary of my life, and of all my life's sorrows. 
 Beyond that the wicked cease from troubling, and the 
 weary are at rest, DonH lay too much to heart our 
 separation from you; it loill be but short. It was 
 but lately your dear mother died. To-day I die, and 
 you, my son, though but young, must shortly folloiv us,^^ 
 " Yes, my father," replied the broken-hearted youth, 
 *' I shall shortly follow you ; for indeed I feel that I 
 cannot hve long." 
 
 On seeing therefore his father in the hands of 
 the executioner, and then struggling in the halter, — 
 he stood like one transfixed and motionless with hor- 
 ror. Till then he had wept incessantly, but as soon 
 as he saw that sight, the fountain of his tears was 
 stanched, and he never wept more. He died insane^ 
 and in his last moments often called on the name of 
 his father in terms that wrung tears from the hardest 
 hearts. 
 
 SOUTH CAROLINA DURING THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 JMr. President, — The honourable gentleman from 
 Massachusetts, while he exonerates me personally 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 151 
 
 from the charge, intimates that there is a party in the 
 country who are looking to disunion. Sir, if the 
 gentleman had stopped there, the accusation would 
 " have passed by me as the idle wind which I regard 
 not." But when he goes on to give his accusation a 
 local habitation and a name, by quoting the expres- 
 sion of a distinguished citizen of South Carolina, — 
 " that it was time for the south to calculate the value 
 of the union," and in the language of the bitterest 
 sarcasm, adds, — " surely then the union cannot last 
 longer than July 1831," it is impossible to mistake 
 either the allusion or the object of the gentleman. 
 Now, Mr. President, I call upon every one who>hears 
 me, to bear witness that this controversy is not of 
 my seeking. The senate will do me the justice to 
 remember, that at the time this unprovoked and un- 
 called for attack was made upon the south, not one 
 word had been uttered by me in disparagement of 
 New England, nor had I made the most distant al- 
 lusion either to the senator from Massachusetts or 
 the state he represents. But, sir, that gentleman 
 has thought proper, for purposes best known to him- 
 self, to strike the south through me, the most un- 
 v/orthy of her servants. He has crossed the border, 
 he has invaded the state of South Carolina, is 
 making war upon her citizens, and endeavouring to 
 overthrow her principles and her institutions. Sir, 
 when the gentleman provokes me to such a conflict, 
 I meet him at the threshold — I will struggle while I 
 have life, for our altars and our firesides ; and if God 
 give me strength, will drive back the invader discom- 
 fited. Nor shall I stop there. If the gentleman 
 provoke the war, he shall have war. Sir, I will not 
 stop at the border ; I will carry the war into the ene- 
 my's territory, and not consent to lay down my arms 
 
152 READER ANB SPEAKER. 
 
 until I shall have obtained " indemnity for the past 
 and security for the future." It is with unfeigned 
 reluctance, Mr. President, that I enter upon the per- 
 formance of this part of my duty — I shrink almost 
 instinctively from a course, however necessary, 
 which may have a tendency to excite sectional feel- 
 ings and sectional jealousies. But, sir, the task has 
 been forced upon me, and I proceed right onward to 
 the performance of my duty. Be the consequences 
 what they may, the responsibility is with those who 
 have imposed upon me this necessity. The sena- 
 tor from Massachusetts has thought proper to cast 
 the first stone, and if he shall find, according to the 
 homely adage, that "he lives in a glass-house" — 
 on his head be the consequences. The gentleman 
 has made a great flourish about his fidelity to Massa- 
 chusetts ; I shall make no professions of zeal for the 
 interests and honour of South Carohna — of that my 
 constituents shall judge. If there be one state in 
 the union, Mr. President, (and I say it not in a boast- 
 ful spirit,) thai may challenge comparison with any 
 other for a uniform, zealous, ardent, and uncalculat- 
 ing devotion to the union, that state is South Caroli- 
 na. Sir, from the very commencement of the revo- 
 lution up to this hour, thtrs is no sacrifice, however 
 great, she has not cheerfully made ; no service she 
 has ever hesitated to perform. She has adhered to 
 you in your prosperity, but in your adversity she has 
 clung to you with more than filial affection. No 
 matter what was the condition of her domestic af- 
 fairs, though deprived of her resources, divided by 
 parties, or surrounded by difficulties, the call of the 
 country has been to her as the voice of God. Do- 
 mestic discord ceased at the sound — every man be- 
 came at once reconciled to his brethren, and the sons 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 153 
 
 of Carolina were all seen crowding together to the 
 temple, bringing their gifts to the altar of their com- 
 mon country. What, sir, was the conduct of the 
 south during the revolution? Sir, I honour New 
 England for her conduct in that glorious struggle : 
 but great as is the praise which belongs to her, I 
 think at least equal honour is due to the south. 
 They espoused the quarrel of their brethren with ge- 
 nerous zeal, which did not suffer them to stop to cal- 
 culate their interest in the dispute. Favourites of the 
 mothercountry, possessed of neither ships nor seamen 
 to create commercial rivalship, they might have found 
 in their situation a guaranty that their trade would be 
 for ever fostered and protected by Great Britain. But 
 trampling on all considerations, either of interest or 
 of safety, they rushed into the conflict, and fighting 
 for principle, periled all in the sacred cause of free- 
 dom. Never was there exhibited in the history of 
 the world higher examples of noble daring, dreadful 
 suffering, and heroic endurance, than by the whigs 
 of Carolina during that revolution. The whole state, 
 from the mountain to the sea, was overrun by an 
 overwhelming force of the enfemy. The fruits of in- 
 dustry perished on the spot where they were produc- 
 ed, or were consumed by»lhe foe. The " plains of 
 Carolina" drank up the most precious blood of her 
 citizens — black and smoking ruins marked the places 
 which had been the habitations of her children ! Dri- 
 ven from their homes into the gloomy and almost 
 impenetrable swamps, even there the spirit of liberty 
 survived, and South Carolina, sustained by the ex- 
 ample of her Sumpters and her Marions, proved by 
 her conduct, that though her soil might be overrun, 
 the spirit of her people was invincible. 
 
154 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 SOUTH CAROLINA AND MASSACHUSETTS. 
 
 The eulogium pronounced on the character of the 
 state of South Carolina by the honourable gentle- 
 man, for her revolutionary and other merits, meets 
 my hearty concurrence. I shall not acknowledge 
 that the honourable member goes before me in regard 
 for whatever of distinguished talent, or distinguished 
 character, South Carolina has produced. I claim 
 part of the honour : I partake in the pride of her great 
 names. I claim them for countrymen, one and all. 
 The Laurenses, Rutledges, the Pinckneys, the Sump- 
 ters, the Marions — Americans all — whose fame is no 
 more to be hemmed in by state lines, than their talents 
 and patriotism were capable of being ciixumscribed 
 within the same narrow limits. 
 
 In their day and generation they served and honour- 
 ed the country, and the whole country, and their re* 
 nown is of the treasures of the whole country. Him, 
 whose honoured name the gentleman bears himself 
 — does he suppose me less capable of gratitude for 
 his patriotism, or sympathy for his sufferings, than if 
 his eyes had first opened upon the light in Massachu- 
 setts instead of South Carolina ? Sir, does he sup- 
 pose it in his power to exhibit a Carolina name so 
 bright as to produce envy in my bosom ? No, sir, — 
 increased gratification and delight, rather. Sir, I 
 thank God, that if I am gifted with little of the spirit 
 which is said to be able to raise mortals to the skies, 
 I have yet none, as I trust, of that other spirit, which 
 would drag angels down. 
 
 When I shall be found, sir, in my place here in the 
 senate, or elsewhere, to sneer at public merit, be^ 
 cause it happened to spring up beyond the little limits 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 155 
 
 of my own state and neighbourhood; when I refuse, 
 for any such cause, or for any cause, the homage due 
 to American talent, to elevated patriotism, to sincere 
 devotion to liberty and the country ; or if I see an 
 uncommon endowment of heaven— if I see extraor- 
 dinary capacity and virtue in any son of the south — 
 and if, moved by local prejudice, or gangrened by 
 state jealousy, I get up here to abate the tithe of a 
 hair from his just character and just fame, may my 
 tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth ! 
 
 Sir, let me recur to pleasing recollections — let me 
 indulge in refreshing remembrances of the past — let 
 me remind you that in early times no states cherish- 
 ed greater harmony, both of principle and of feeling, 
 than Massachusetts and South Carolina. Would to 
 God that harmony might again return. Shoulder to 
 shoulder they went through the revolution — hand in 
 hand they stood round the administration of Washing- 
 ton, and felt his own great arm lean on them for sup- 
 port. Unkind feeling, if it exist, alienation and dis- 
 trust are the growth, unnatural to such soils, of false 
 principles since sown. They are weeds, the seeds 
 of which that same great arm never scattered. 
 
 Mr. President, 1 shall enter on no encomium upon 
 Massachusetts — she needs none. There she is — 
 behold her and judge for yourselves. There is her 
 history — the world knows it by heart. The past, at 
 least, is secure. There is Boston, and Concord, and 
 Lexington, and Bunker's Hill ; and there they will 
 remain for ever. The bones of her sons, fallen in the 
 great struggle for independence, now lie mingled 
 with the soil of every state, from New England to 
 Georgia ; and there they will lie for ever. 
 
 And, sir, where American liberty raised its first 
 voice, and where ita^ youth, was nurtured and sustain- 
 
156 READER AND SPEAKER* 
 
 ed, there it still lives, in the strength of its manhood, 
 and full of its original spirit. If discord and disunion 
 shall wound it — if party strife and blind ambition 
 shall hawk at and tear it ; if folly and madness, if un- ' 
 easiness, under salutary and necessary restraint, shall 
 succeed to separate it from that union, by which alone 
 its existence is made sure, it will stand, in the end, 
 by the side of that cradle in which its infancy was 
 rocked ; it will stretch forth its arm with whatever of 
 vigour it may still retain, over the friends who gather 
 round it : and it will fall at last, if fall it must, amidst 
 the proudest monuments of its own glory, and on the 
 very spot of its origin. 
 
 THE HORRORS OF WAR. 
 
 Real war, my friends, is a very different thing from 
 that painted image of it, which you see on a parade 
 or at a review ; it is the most awful scourge that Pro- 
 vidence employs for the chastisement of man. It is 
 the garment of vengeance with which the Deity ar- 
 rays himself when he comes forth to punish the in- 
 habitants of the earth. 
 
 Since the commencement of those hostilities which 
 are now so happily closed, it may be reasonably con- 
 jectured that not less than half a million of our fellow- 
 creatures have fallen a sacrifice. Half a million of 
 beings, sharers of the same nature, warmed with the 
 same hopes, and as fondly attached to life as our- 
 selves, have been prematurely swept into the grave ; 
 each of whose deaths has pierced the heart of a wife, 
 a parent, a brother, or a sister. How many of these 
 scenes of complicated distress have occurred since 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 157 
 
 the commencement of hostilities, is known only to 
 Omniscience : that they are innumerable, cannot ad- 
 mit of a doubt. In some parts of Europe, perhaps, 
 there is scarcely a family exempt. 
 
 To confine our attention to the number of those 
 who are slain in battle, would give but a very inade- 
 quate idea of the ravages of the sword. The lot of 
 those who perish instantaneously, may be consi- 
 dered, apart from religious prospects, as compara- 
 tively happy, since they are exempt from those lin- 
 gering diseases and slow torments, to which others 
 are liable. We cannot see an individual expire, 
 though a stranger or an enemy, without being sensi- 
 bly moved, and prompted by compassion to lend him 
 every assistance in our power. Every trace of re- 
 sentment vanishes in a moment ; every other emo- 
 tion gives way to pity and terror. 
 
 In these last extremities, we remember nothing 
 but the respect and tenderness due to our common 
 nature. What a scene then must a field of battle 
 present, where thousands are left without assistance 
 and without pity, with their wounds exposed to the 
 piercing air ; while the blood, freezing as it flows, 
 binds them to the earth, amidst the trampling of 
 horses and the insults of an enraged foe ! 
 
 But we have hitherto only adverted to the suffer- 
 ings of those who are engaged in the profession of 
 arms, without taking into our account the situation 
 of the countries which are the scene of hostilities. 
 How dreadful to hold every thing at the mercy of an 
 enemy, and to receive life itself as a boon depen- 
 dent on the sword. How boundless the fears which 
 such a situation must inspire, where the issues of 
 life and death are determined by no known laws, 
 principles, or customs, and no conjecture can be^ 
 14 
 
158 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 formed of our destiny, except as far as it is dimly 
 deciphered in characters of blood, in the dictates of 
 revenge, and the caprices of power. 
 
 Conceive but for a moment the consternation 
 which the approach of an invading army would im- 
 press on the peaceful villages in this neighbourhood. 
 When you have placed yourselves for an instant in 
 that situation, you will learn to sympathize with 
 those unhappy countries which have sustained the 
 ravages of arms. 
 
 SPECIMEN OP ELOaUENCE OF JAMES OTIS : 
 EXTRACTED FROM " THE REBELS." 
 
 England may as well dam up the waters of the 
 Nile with bulrushes, as to fetter the step of freedom, 
 more proud and firm in this youthful land, than where 
 she treads the sequestered glens of Scotland, or 
 couches herself among the magnificent mountains of 
 Switzerland. Arbitrary principles, like those against 
 which we now contend, have cost one king of Eng- 
 land his life, another his crown ; and they yet may 
 cost a third his most flourishing colonies. 
 
 Some have sneeringly asked, " Arc the Americans 
 too poor to pay a few pounds on stamped paper V^ 
 No ! America, thanks to God and herself, is rich. 
 But the right to take ten pounds implies the right to 
 take a thousand ; and what must be the wealth, that 
 avarice, aided by power, cannot exhaust ? True, the 
 spectre is now small ; but the shadow he casts before 
 him is huge enough to darken all this fair land. 
 
 Others, in sentimental style, talk of the immense 
 debt of gratitude which we owe to England. And 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 159 
 
 what is the amount of this debt ? Why, truly, it is the 
 same that the young lion owes to the dam, which has 
 brought it forth on the sohtude of the mountain, or 
 left it amid the winds and storms of the desert. 
 
 We plunged into the wave, with the great charter 
 of freedom in our teeth, because the fagot and torch 
 were behind us. We have waked this new world 
 from its savage lethargy ; forests have been pros- 
 trated in our path ; towns and cities have grown up 
 suddenly as the flowers of the tropics, and the fires 
 in our autumnal woods are scarcely more rapid than 
 the increase of our wealth and population. 
 
 And do we owe all this to the kind succour of the 
 mother country ? No ! we owe it to the tyranny that 
 drove us from her, — to the pelting storms which in- 
 vigorated our helpless infancy. 
 
 But perhaps others will say, " We ask no money 
 from your gratitude, — we only demand that you 
 should pay your own expenses." And who, 1 pray, 
 is to judge of their necessity? "Why, the king — 
 (and with all due reverence to his sacred majesty, he 
 understands the real wants of his distant subjects as 
 little as he does the language of the Choctaws.) 
 W^ho is to judge concerning the frequency of these 
 demands] The ministry. Who is to judge whether 
 the money is properly expended 1 The cabinet behind 
 the throne. 
 
 In every instance, those who take are to judge for 
 those who pay. If this system is suffered to go into 
 operation, we shall have reason to esteem it a great 
 privilege that rain and dew do not depend upon 
 parliament ; otherwise they would soon be taxed and 
 dried. 
 
160 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 PITT ON AMERICAN AFFAIRS. | 
 
 My lords, this ruinous and ignominious situation, 
 where we cannot act with success nor suffer with 
 honour, calls upon us to remonstrate in the strongest 
 and loudest language of truth, to rescue the ear of 
 majesty from the delusions which surround it. The 
 desperate state of our army abroad is in part known : 
 no man thinks more highly of it than I do. I love and 
 honour the English troops. I know their virtues and 
 their valour. I know they can achieve any thing ex- 
 cept impossibilities ; and I know that the conquest of 
 English America is an impossibility. You cannot, 
 I venture to say it, you cannot conquer America. 
 
 Your armies last war effected every thing that 
 could be effected ; and what was it ? It cost a nu- 
 merous army, under the command of a most able 
 general, now a noble lord in this house, a long and 
 laborious campaign, to expel five thousand French- 
 men from French America, My lords, you cannot 
 conquer America, What is your present situation 
 there ? We do not know the worst ; but we know, 
 that in three campaigns we have done nothing and 
 suffered much. Beside the sufferings, perhaps to- 
 tal loss^ of the northern force ; the best appointed 
 army that ever took the field, commanded by Sir 
 William Howe, has retired from the American lines. 
 He was obliged to relinquish his attempt, and, with 
 great delay and danger, to adopt a new and distant 
 plan of operations. 
 
 We shall soon know, and in any event have rea- 
 son to lament, what may have happened since. As 
 to conquest, therefore, my lords, I repeat, it is im- 
 possible. You may swell every expense, and every 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 161 
 
 effort, still more extravagantly ; pile and accumulate 
 every assistance you can buy or borrow ; traffic 
 and barter with every little pitiful German prince, 
 that sells and sends his subjects to the shambles of 
 a foreign despot ; your efforts are for ever vain and 
 impotent : doubly so from this mercenary aid on 
 which you rely. For it irritates, to an incurable re- 
 sentment, the minds of your enemies — to overrun 
 them with the mercenary sons of rapine and plunder ; 
 devoting them and their possessions to the rapacity 
 of hireling cruelty ! — If I were an American, as lam 
 an Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in 
 my country, I never would lay down my arms — 
 never — never — never. 
 
 VINDICATION OF SPAIN. 
 
 Permit me, sir, to express my regret and decided 
 disapprobation of the terms of reproach and con- 
 tempt in which this nation has been spoken of on this 
 floor ; " poor, degraded Spain," has resounded from 
 various parts of the house. Is it becoming, sir, the 
 dignity of a representative of the American people to 
 utter, from his high station, invectives against a na- 
 tion, with whom we cultivate and maintain the most 
 friendly relations 1 Is it discreet, sir, in an individual, 
 however enlightened, to venture upon a denunciation 
 of a whole people ? 
 
 We talk of a war with Spain, as a matter of amuse- 
 ment. I do not desire to partake of it. It will not 
 be found a very comfortable war, not from her power 
 to do so much harm, but from the impossibility of 
 gaining any thing by it, or of wearing out her patience, 
 14* 
 
162 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 or subduing her fortitude. The history of every 
 Spanish war, is a history of immovable obstinacy, 
 that seems to be confirmed and hardened by misfor- 
 tune and trial. In her frequent contests with Eng- 
 land, the latter, after all her victories, has been the 
 first to desire peace. 
 
 Let gentlemen not deceive themselves, about the 
 pleasantry of a Spanish war. May they not, sir, have 
 some respect for the past character of this nation? 
 The time has been, when a Spanish knight, was the 
 type of every thing that was chivalrous in valour, ge- 
 nerous in honour, and pure in patriotism. A century 
 has hardly gone by, since the Spanish infantry was 
 the terror of Europe and the pride of soldiers. But 
 those days of her glory are past. Where, now, is 
 that invincible courage ; that noble devotion to ho- 
 nour ; that exalted love of country ? Let me tell you, 
 in a voice of warning, they are buried in the mines 
 of Mexico and the mountains of Peru. Beware, my 
 countrymen ; look not with so eager an eye to these 
 fatal possessions, which will also be the grave of your 
 strength and virtue, should you be so unfortunate as 
 to obtain them. 
 
 SALATHIEL TO TITUS. 
 
 Son of Vespasian, I am at this hour a poor man ; 
 as I may in the next be an exile or a slave : I have 
 ties to hfe as strong as ever were bound round the 
 heart of man : I stand here a suppliant for the life of 
 one whose loss would embitter mine ! Yet, not for 
 wealth unlimited, for the safety of my family, for the 
 life of the noble victim that is now standing at the 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 163 
 
 place of torture, dare I abandon, dare I think the 
 impious thought of abandoning, the cause of the 
 City of Hohness. 
 
 Titus ! in the name of that Being, to whom the 
 wisdom of the earth is folly, I adjure you to beware. 
 Jerusalem is sacred. Her crimes have often 
 wrought her misery — often has she been trampled 
 by the armies of the stranger. But she is still the 
 City of the Omnipotent ; and never was blow inflicted 
 on her by man, that was not terribly repaid. 
 
 The Assyrian came, the miglitiest power of the 
 world : he plundered her temple, and led her 
 people into captivity. How long was it before 
 his empire was a dream, his dynasty extinguish- 
 ed in blood, and an enemy on his throne ? — The 
 Persian came : from her protector, he turned into 
 her oppressor ; and his empire was swept away like 
 the dust of the desert! — The Syrian smote her: the 
 smiter died in agonies of remorse ; and where is his 
 kingdom now ?— The Egyptian smote her ; and who 
 now sits on the throne of the Ptolemies ? 
 
 Pompey came ; the invincible, the conqueror of 
 a thousand cities : the light of Rome ; the lord of 
 Asia, riding on the very wings of victory. But he 
 profaned her Temple ; and from that hour he went 
 down — down, like a mill-stone plunged into the 
 ocean ! Blind counsel, rash ambition, womanish 
 fears, were upon the great statesman and warrior of 
 Rome. Where does he sleep ? What sands were 
 coloured v/ith his blood ? The universal conqueror 
 died a slave, by the hands of a slave ! — Crassus 
 came at the head of the legions : he plundered the 
 sacred vessels of the sanctuary. Vengeance follow- 
 ed him, and he was cursed by the curse of God. 
 Where are the bones of the robber and his host ? 
 
164 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 Go, tear them from the jaws of the lion and the wolf 
 of Parthia, — their fitting tomb! 
 
 You, too, son of Vespasian, maybe commissioned 
 for the punishment of a stiff-necked and rebellious 
 people. You may scourge our naked vice by the 
 force of arms ; and then you may return to your own 
 land exulting in the conquest of the fiercest enemy 
 of Rome. But shall you escape the common fate 
 of the instrument of evil? — shall you see a peaceful 
 old age 1 — Shall a son of yours ever sit upon the 
 throne ? — Shall not rather some monster of your 
 blood efface the memory of your virtues, and make 
 Rome, in bitterness of soul, curse the Flavian name 1 
 
 THE END OP THE WORLD. 
 
 There has been a time when our planet could not 
 sustain beings of our species ; and once again the 
 time will come, when it will cease to be the dwelling- 
 place of mankind, and will either assume a new form 
 or disappear from the rank of stars. 
 
 The earth bears in its bosom destroying powers ; 
 and bodies float around and near it, which threaten 
 its dissolution. 
 
 Therefore, thou wilt not subsist for ever, thou cra- 
 dle of our race ; thou land of blessing and cursing ; 
 thou grave full of joy and life ; thou paradise full of 
 pain and death ; thou scene for thousands of years 
 of our wisdom and folly, our virtues and vices. No, 
 thou canst not last for ever ! Thou thyself also, like 
 every thing that thou bearest, must obey thy law, the 
 law of mutability and destruction. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 165 
 
 Possibly thou mayest continue thy course for thou- 
 sands of years longer with strength and gladness, at- 
 tended by thy moon and led by thy shining sun. 
 Possibly thou mayest still for thousands of years main- 
 tain the succession of days and nights, summer and 
 winter, in invariable order, and see the generations of 
 man come and go. 
 
 Finite art thou, and transitory — as thy children 
 are finite and transitory. For that which is created 
 is not eternal and imperishable, as the Creator is 
 eternal and immutable. For thee also a limit is fix- 
 ed. Even thy long day will decHne. He that form- 
 ed thee will change thee : he that created thee will 
 destroy thee ; even thy strength shall decay ; even 
 thy structure shall fall into ruins ; even thy law and 
 thy order shall be no more. 
 
 On all sides, wherever we turn our eyes, we are 
 met by images of decay. History is a large silent 
 field, covered with ruins and graves. What we bear 
 in the memory is past and gone. What we built we 
 see totter ; and in the humiliating feeling of diminish- 
 ed and wasting energy of life, the sad idea of ap- 
 proaching dissolution often occurs. But we are 
 never more forcibly affected by the feeling of the 
 vanity of worldly things, than when we transport our- 
 selves in imagination to the day of the falling world, 
 and hover, as it v/ere, over the ruins of our destroyed 
 planet. 
 
 The earth has now filled the measure of its years, 
 and its time is come ; the conflict of the elements 
 begins, and in the mighty struggle all the works of 
 men perish, and the last of our race are buried under 
 the ruins of faliinj^ palaces and cottages ; and not 
 only the works of men, but the works of nature also 
 come to an end ; the barriers of beach and shore are 
 
166 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 broken through ; the mountains, thousands of years 
 old, bend their heads ; all life stiffens ; the beautiful 
 structure of plants and animals is resolved into 
 rough matter ; the powers of destruction rule, wild 
 and law^less. And now the conflict is ended ; now 
 the earth is again waste and void, and darkness is on 
 the face of the deep. 
 
 THE OCEAN. 
 
 Likeness of heaven ! agent of power; 
 Man is thy victim ; shipwrecks thy dower ! 
 Spices and jewels, from valley and sea, 
 Armies and banners are buried in thee ! 
 
 What are the riches of Mexico's mines. 
 To the wealth that far down in the deep water shines ? 
 The proud navies that cover the conquering west — 
 Thou flingest them to death with one heave of thy 
 breast ] 
 
 From the high hills that view thy wreck-making 
 
 shore, 
 When the bride of the mariner shrieks at thy roar ; 
 When, like lambs in the tempest, or mews in the 
 
 blast. 
 O'er ridge broken billows the canvass is cast ; 
 
 How humbling to one with a heart and a soul, 
 To look on thy greatness and list to its roll ; 
 To think how that heart in cold ashes shall be, 
 While the voice of eternity rises from thee ! 
 
 Yes ! where are the cities of Thebes and of Tjrre ? 
 Swept from the nations like sparks from the fire : 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 167 
 
 The glory of Athens, the splendour of Rome, 
 Dissolved — and for ever like dew in the foam. 
 
 But thou art almighty — eternal — sublime— 
 Unweakened, unwasted — twin brother of time ! 
 Fleets, tempests, nor nations, thy glory can bow I 
 As the stars first beheld thee, still chainless art thou ! 
 
 But hold! when thy surges no longer shall roll, 
 And that firmament's length is drawn back like a 
 
 scroll ; 
 Then — then shall the spirit that sighs by thee now, 
 Be more mighty — more lasting more chainless than 
 
 thou! 
 
 THE FOLLY AND WICKEDNESS OF WAR. 
 
 Two poor mortals, elevated with the distinction of 
 a golden bauble on their heads, called a crown, take 
 offence at each other, without any reason, or with 
 the very bad one of wishing for an opportunity of 
 aggrandizing themselves by making reciprocal depre- 
 dations. The creatures of the court, and the lead- 
 ing men of the nation, who are usually under the in- 
 fluence of the court, resolve (for it is their interest) 
 to support their royal master, and are never at a loss 
 to invent some colourable pretence for engaging the 
 nation in war. Taxes of the most burdensome kind 
 are levied, soldiers are collected, so as to leave a 
 paucity of husbandmen ; reviews and encampments 
 succeed ; and at last fifteen or twenty thousand 
 men meet on a plain, and coolly shed each other's 
 blood, without the smallest personal animosity or the 
 shadow of a provocation. The kings, in the mean 
 
168 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 time, and the grandees, who have employed these 
 poor innocent victims to shoot bullets at each other's 
 heads, remain quietly at home, and amuse them- 
 selves, in the intervals of balls, hunting schemes, and 
 pleasures of every species, with reading at the fire- 
 side, and over a cup of chocolate, the despatches 
 from the army, and the news in the Extraordinary 
 Gazette. If the king of Prussia were not at the 
 head of some of the best troops in the world, he 
 would be judged more worthy of being tried, and 
 condemned, at the Old Bailey, than any shedder of 
 blood who ever died by a halter. But he is a king ; 
 but he is a hero ; — those names fascinate us, and 
 we enrol the butcher of mankind among their bene- 
 factors. 
 
 When one considers the dreadful circumstances 
 that attend even victories, one cannot help being a 
 little shocked at the exultation which they occasion. 
 I have often thought it would be a laughable scene^ 
 if there were not too m.uch of the melancholy in it, 
 when a circle of eager politicians have met to con- 
 gratulate each other on a piece of good news just ar- 
 rived. Every eye sparkles with delight ; every voice 
 is raised in announcing the happy event. And what 
 is the cause of all this joy 1 and for what are our 
 windows illuminated, bonfires kindled, bells rung, 
 and feasts celebrated 1 We have had a successful 
 engagement. We have left a thousand of the ene- 
 my dead on the field of battle, and only nine hundred 
 of our countrymen. Charming news ! it was a 
 glorious battle ! But before you give a loose to 
 your raptures, pause awhile ; and consider, that to 
 every one of these nineteen hundred, life was no less 
 sweet than it is to you ; that to the far greater part 
 of them there probably were wives, fathers, mothers* 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 169 
 
 sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, and friends, all of 
 whom are at this moment wailing that event which 
 occasions your foolish and brutal triumph. 
 
 BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by night, 
 And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
 Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
 The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men : 
 A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
 Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
 Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, 
 And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; 
 But hush ! hark ! — a deep sound strikes like a rising 
 knell ! 
 
 Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the wind, 
 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony street : 
 
 On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; 
 
 No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet 
 
 To chase the glowing hours with flying feet — 
 
 But, hark ! — That heavy sound breaks in once more, 
 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat. 
 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
 
 Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar ! 
 
 Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro. 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
 And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
 Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness : 
 And there were sudden partings, such as press 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
 15 
 
170 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 Which ne'er might be repeated — who could guess 
 If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
 Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could 
 rise? 
 
 And there was mounting in hot haste ; the steed, 
 The mustering squadron, and the clattering car 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
 And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
 While thronged the citizens with terror dumb. 
 Or whispering with white lips — " The foe ! they 
 come ! they come !" 
 
 And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
 Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
 Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves. 
 Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
 Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
 In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 Of living valour, rolling on the foe. 
 And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and 
 low. 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. 
 
 Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, 
 
 The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
 
 The morn the marshaling in arms, — the day, 
 
 Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent. 
 
 The earth is covered thick with other clay. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 171 
 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent. 
 Rider and horse,— friend, foe— in one red burial 
 blent I 
 
 CHARACTER OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 He is fallen! We may now pause before that 
 splendid prodiojy, which towered amongst us like 
 some ancient ruin, whose frown terrified the glance 
 its magnificence attracted. Grand, gloomy, and pe- 
 culiarj'^he sat upon the throne a sceptred hermit, 
 wrapt in the solitude of his own originality. A mind, 
 bold, independent, and decisive— a will, despotic m 
 its dictates— an energy that distanced expedition, and 
 a conscience pliable to every touch of interest, mark- 
 ed the outline of this extraordinary character— the 
 most extraordinary, perhaps, that in the annals of 
 this world ever rose, or reigned, or feH. Flung into 
 life in the midst of a revolution that quickened every 
 energy of a people who acknowledged no superior, 
 he commenced his course, a stranger by birth and a 
 scholar by charity ! With no friend but his sword, 
 and no fortune but his talents, he rushed in the list 
 where rank, and wealth, and genius had arrayed 
 themselves, and competition fled from him as from 
 the glance of destiny. He knew no motive but in- 
 terest — he acknowledged no criterion but success — 
 he worshipped no God but ambition, and with an 
 eastern devotion he knelt at the shrine of his idolatry. 
 Subsidiary to this, there was no creed that he did not 
 profess, there was no opinion that he did not pro- 
 mulgate ; in the hope of a dynasty he upheld the 
 descent ; for the sake of a divorce he bowed before 
 
172 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 the cross : the orphan of St. Louis, he became the 
 adopted child of the republic : and with a parricidal 
 ingratitude, on the ruins both of the throne and tri- 
 bune, he reared the throne of his despotism. A pro- 
 fessed Catholic, he imprisoned the pope ; a pretended 
 patriot, he impoverished the country ; and, in the 
 name of Brutus, he grasped without remorse, and 
 wore without shame, the diadem of the Caesars ! 
 Through this pantomime of policy fortune played the 
 clown to his caprices. At his touch crowns crum- 
 bled, beggars reigned, systems vanished, the wildest 
 theories took the colour of his whim, and all that was 
 venerable, and all that was novel, changed places 
 with the rapidity of a drama. Even apparent defeat 
 assumed the appearance of victory — his flight from 
 Egypt confirmed his destiny — ruin itself only elevat- 
 ed him to empire. But if his fortune was great, his 
 genius was transcendent ; decision flashed upon his 
 councils ; and it was the same to decide and to per- 
 form. To inferior intellects his combinations ap- 
 peared perfectly impossible, his plans perfectly im- 
 practicable ; but, in his hands, simplicity marked 
 their development and success vindicated their adop- 
 tion. His person partook the character of his mind 
 — if the one never yielded in the cabinet, the other 
 never bent in the field. Nature had no obstacle that 
 he did not surmount — space no opposition that he did 
 not spurn ; and whether amid Alpine rocks, Arabian 
 sands, or Polar snows, he seemed proof against peril, 
 and empowered with ubiquity f The whole continent 
 trembled at beholding the audacity of his designs 
 and the miracle of their execution. Scepticism 
 bowed to the prodigies of his performance ; romance 
 assumed the air of history ; nor was there aught too 
 incredible for belief, or too fanciful for expectation, 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 173 
 
 when the world saw a subaltern of Corsica waving 
 his imperial flag over her most ancient capitals. All 
 the visions of antiquity became common-places in 
 his contemplation ; kings were his people — nations 
 were his outposts ; and he disposed of courts, and 
 crowns, and camps, and churches, and cabinets, a? if 
 they were titular dignitaries of the chess-board ! Amid 
 all these changes he stood immutable as adamant. 
 
 It mattered little whether in the field or in the 
 drawing-room — with the mob or the levee — wearing 
 the jacobin bonnet or the iron crown — banishing a 
 Braganza or espousing a Hapsburg — dictating peace 
 on a raft to the Czar of Russia, or contemplating 
 defeat at the gallows of Leipsig — he was still the 
 «ame niiHtary despot ! 
 
 In this wonderful combination, his affectations of 
 literature must not be omitted. The gaoler of the 
 press, he affected the patronage of letters — the pro- 
 scriber of books, he encouraged philosophy — the 
 persecutor of authors and the murderer of printers, 
 he yet pretended to the protection of learning ! the 
 assassin of Palm, the silencer of De Stael, and the 
 denouncer of Kotzebue, he was the fiiend of David, 
 the benefactor of De Lille, and sent his academic 
 prize to the philosopher of England. Such a medley 
 of contradictions, and at the same time such an indi- 
 vidual consistency, were never united in the same 
 character, — A royalist — a republican and an emperor 
 — a mohammedan — a catholic and a patron of the 
 synagogue — a subaltern and a sovereign — a traitor 
 and a tyrant — a christian and an infidel — he was, 
 through all his vicissitudes, the same stern, impatient, 
 inflexible original — the same mysterious incompre- 
 hensible self — the man without a model and without 
 a shadow. 
 
 15* 
 
174 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 MARCO BOZZARIS, THE EPAMINONDAS OF MO- 
 DERN GREECE. 
 
 His last words were — " To die for liberty is a pleasure and not 
 a pain." 
 
 At midnight, in his guarded tent 
 
 The Turk was dreaming of the hour, 
 When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 
 
 Should tremble at his power. 
 In dreams through camp and court, he bore 
 The trophies of a conqueror ; 
 
 In dreams his song of triumph heard; 
 Then wore his monarch's signet ring. 
 Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king ; 
 As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 
 
 As Eden's garden bird. 
 
 An hour passed on — the Turk awoke ; 
 
 That bright dream was his last ; 
 He woke — to hear his sentry's shriek, 
 " To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !" 
 He woke — to die midst flame and smoke, 
 And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke, 
 
 And death shots falHng thick and fast 
 As lightnings from the mountain cloud ; 
 And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 
 
 Bozzaris cheer his band : — 
 *' Strike — till the last armed foe expires, 
 Strike — for your altars and your fires. 
 Strike — for the green graves of your sires, 
 
 God — and your native land !" 
 
 They fought — like brave men, long and well. 
 They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 176 
 
 They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 
 
 Bleeding at every vein. 
 His few surviving comrades saw 
 His smile when rang their proud hurrah, 
 
 And the red field was won ; 
 Then saw in death his eyelids close 
 Calmly, as to a night's repose, 
 
 Like flowers at set of sun. 
 
 Come to the bridal chamber, death ! 
 
 Come to the mother, when she feels 
 For the first time her first-born's breath ; — 
 
 Come when the blessed seals 
 Which close the pestilence are broke. 
 And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
 Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
 The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; — 
 Come when the heart beats high and warm. 
 
 With banquet-song, and dance, and wine^ 
 And thou art terrible : the tear. 
 The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
 And all we know, or dream, or fear 
 
 Of agony, are thine. 
 
 But to the hero, when his sword 
 
 Has won the battle for the free. 
 Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word. 
 And in its hollow tones are heard 
 
 The thanks of millions yet to be. 
 Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 
 
 Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
 Rest thee — there is no prouder grave. 
 
 Even in her own proud clime. 
 
 We tell thy doom without a sigh ; 
 For thou art freedom's now, and fame's — 
 
176 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 One of the few, the immortal names, 
 That were not born to die. 
 
 GROUND SWELL IN THE POLAR REGIONS. 
 
 The ice in the polar regions accommodates itself 
 to the surface by bending ; but when several yards 
 in thickness, it refuses to yield beyond a certain ex- 
 tent, and is broken in pieces with dreadful explo- 
 sions. The best account that we know of the ap- 
 pearances presented on such occasions is given by a 
 party of Moravian missionaries, who were engaged 
 in a coasting expedition on the ice along the northern 
 shore of Labrador, with sledges drawn by dogs. 
 They narrowly escaped destruction from one of those 
 occurrences, and were near enough to witness all 
 its grandeur. We extract it from the recent inter- 
 esting compilation of the Rev. Dr. Brown on the 
 History of the Propagation of Christianity. The 
 missionaries met a sledge with Esquimaux turning in 
 from the sea, who threw in some hints that it might be 
 as well for them to return ; after some time their 
 own Esquimaux hinted that there was a ground swell 
 under the ice ; it was then scarcely perceptible, ex- 
 cept on lying down and applying the ear close to the 
 ice, when a hollow, disagreeable, grating noise was 
 heard ascending from the abyss. 
 
 As the motion of the sea under the ice had grown 
 more perceptible, they became alarmed, and began 
 to think it prudent to keep close to the shore ; the 
 ice also had fissures in many places, some of which 
 formed chasms of one or two feet ; but as these are 
 not uncommon even in its best state, and the dogs 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 177 
 
 easily leap over them, they are frightful only to 
 strangers. As the wind rose to a storm, the swell 
 had now increased so much that its effects on the ice 
 were extraordinary and really alarming. The sledges, 
 instead of gliding smoothly along on an even surface, 
 sometimes ran with violence after the dogs, and 
 sometimfes seemed with difficulty to ascend a rising 
 hill ; noises, too, were now distinctly heard in many 
 directions, like the reports of cannon, from the burst- 
 ing of the ice at a distance. Alarmed at these fright- 
 ful phenomena, our travellers drove with all haste to- 
 wards the shore, and as they approached it, the pros- 
 pect before them was tremendous ; the ice, having 
 burst loose from the rocks, was tossed to and fro, 
 and broken in a thousand pieces against the preci- 
 pices with a dreadful noise ; whicih, added to the 
 raging of the sea, the roaring of the wind, and the 
 driving of the snow, so completely overpowered thena 
 as almost to deprive them of the use of both their 
 eyes and ears. To make the land now was the 
 only resource that remained ; but it was with the ut- 
 most difficulty that the frightened dogs could be dri- 
 ven forward ; and as the whole body of the ice fre- 
 quently sunk below the summits of the rocks, and 
 then rose above them, the only time for landing was 
 at the moment it gained the level of the coast — a 
 circumstance which rendered the attempt extremely 
 nice and hazardous ; both sledges, however, succeeded^ 
 in gaining the shore, and were drawn up on the beach, 
 though not without great difficulty ; scarcely had 
 they reached it, when the part of the ice from which 
 they had just escaped burst asunder, and the water, 
 rushing from beneath, instantly precipitated it into 
 the ocean ; in a moment, as if by a signal, the whole 
 mass of ice for several miles along the coast, and 
 
178 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 extending as far as the eye could reach, began to 
 break and to be overwhelmed with waves ; the spec- 
 tacle was awfully grand ; the immense fields of ice 
 rising out of the ocean, clashing against one another, 
 and then plunging in the deep Vv^ith a violence which 
 no language can describe, and a noise hke the dis- 
 charge of ten thousand cannons, was a sight which 
 must have struck the most unreflecting mind with 
 solemn awe. The brethren were overwhelmed with 
 amazement at their miraculous escape, and even the 
 pagan Esquimaux expressed gratitude to God for 
 their deliverance. 
 
 SUFFERINGS FROM WAR. 
 
 The following extract, which refers to the suffer- 
 ings of the French army during its campaign in Rus- 
 sia, exhibits a graphic description of one of the most 
 appalling scenes in mihtary history : — 
 
 " The winter now overtook us ; and by filling up 
 the measure of each individual's sufferings, put an 
 end to that mutual support which had hitherto sus- 
 tained us. Henceforward the scene presented only 
 a multitude of isolated and individual struggles. 
 
 " The best conducted no longer respected them- 
 selves. All fraternity of arms was forgotten, all the 
 bonds of society were torn asunder — excess of mise- 
 ry had brutalized them. A devouring hunger had 
 reduced these unfortunate v/retches to the mere bru- 
 tal instinct of self-preservation, to which they were 
 ready to sacrifice every other consideration. 
 
 " The rude and barbarous climate seemed to have 
 communicated its fury to them. Like the worst of 
 
READER AND SPEAKER, 179 
 
 savages, the strong fell upon the weak, and despoil- 
 ed them; they eagerly surrounded the dying, and 
 often even waited not for their last sigh before they 
 stripped them. 
 
 '' When a horse fell, they rushed upon it, tore it 
 in pieces, and snatched the morsel from each other's 
 mouth, like a troop of famished wolves. However, 
 a considerable number still preserved enough of mo- 
 ral feeling not to seek their safety in the ruin of others, 
 but this was the last effort of their virtue. 
 
 '* If an officer or a comrade fell alongside them, 
 or under the wheels of the cannon, it was in vain 
 that he implored them, by a common country, reli- 
 gion, and cause, to succour him. He obtained not 
 even a look : all the frozen inflexibility of the cli- 
 mate had passed into their hearts ; its rigidity had 
 contracted their sentiments as well as their features. 
 
 " All, except a few chiefs, were absorbed by their 
 own sufferings, and terror left no place for pity. 
 That egotism which is often produced by excessive 
 prosperity, results also from extreme adversity — but 
 in which latter case it is mure excusable, the former 
 being voluntary, the latter forced ; one a crime of 
 the heart, the other an impulse of instinct, and alto- 
 gether physical. 
 
 " And, indeed, upon the occasion here alluded to, 
 there was much of excuse, for to stop for a moment 
 was to risk your own life. In this scene of universal 
 destruction, to hold out your hand to your comrade 
 or your sinking chief, was an admirable effort of ge- 
 nerosity. The slightest act of humanity was an in- 
 stance of sublime devotion. 
 
 " When unable, from total exhaustion, to proceed, 
 they halted for a moment, winter, with his icy hands, 
 seized upon them for his prey. It was then that, in 
 
180 READER AND SPEAKER, 
 
 vain these unfortunate beings, feeling themselves be- 
 numbed, endeavoured to rouse themselves. 
 
 "Voiceless, insensible, and plunged in stupor, 
 they moved a few paces like machines; but the 
 blood, already freezing in their veins, flowed languid- 
 ly through their hearts, and, mounting to their heads, 
 made them stagger like drunken men. 
 
 " From their eyes, become red and inflamed from 
 the continual view of the dazzling snow and the 
 want of sleep, there burst forth ted tears of blood, 
 accompanied with profound sighs ; they looked at 
 the sky, at us, and upon the earth, with a fixed and 
 haggard state of consternation ; this was their last 
 farewell, or rather reproach to that barbarous nature 
 that tortured them. 
 
 " Thus dropping upon their knees, and afterwards 
 upon their hands, their heads moving for an instant 
 or two from right to left, while from their gasping 
 lips escaped the most agonizing moans ; at length 
 they fell prostrate upon the snow, staining it with a 
 gush of living blood, and all their miseries terminated. 
 
 " Their comrades passed over them without even 
 stepping aside, dreading to lengthen their march by 
 a single pace — they even turned not their heads to 
 look at them, for the shghtest motion of the head to 
 the right of left was attended with torture, the hair 
 of their heads and beards being frozen into a solid 
 mass. 
 
 " Scenes of still greater horror took place in those 
 immense log-houses, or sheds, which were found at 
 certain intervals along the road. Into these, soldiers 
 and officers rushed precipitately, and huddled toge- 
 ther like so many cattle. The living not having 
 strength enough to move those who had died close 
 to the fire, sat down upon their bodies, until their 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 181 
 
 own turn came to expire, when they also served as 
 death-beds to other victims. 
 
 " Sometimes the fire communicated itself to the 
 wood, of which these sheds were composed, and then 
 all those within the walls, already half dead with 
 cold, expired in the flames. At one village the sol- 
 diers set fire to whole houses, in order to warm 
 themselves a few moments. 
 
 " The glare of those conflagrations attracted crowds 
 of «vretches whom the intensity of the cold and suf- 
 fering had rendered delirious : These rushing forward 
 like madmen, gnashing their teeth, and with demo- 
 niac laughter, precipitated themselves into the midst 
 of the flames, where they perished in horrible con- 
 vulsions. 
 
 REMARKABLE INSTANCES OF ADAPTATION 
 AND CONTRIVANCE IN NATURE. 
 
 If any quantity of matter, as a pound of wood or 
 iron, fashioned into a rod of a certain length, say 
 one foot, the rod will be strong in proportion to its 
 thickness ; and, if the figure is the same, that thick- 
 ness can only be increased by making it hollow. 
 Therefore, hollow rods or tubes, of the same length 
 and quantity of matter, have more strength than solid 
 ones. This is a principle so well understood now, 
 that engineers make their axles and other parts of 
 machinery hollow, and, therefore, stronger with the 
 same weight, than they would be if thinner and so- 
 lid. Now the bones of animals are all more or less 
 hollow ; and are therefore, stronger with the same 
 weight and quantity of matter than they otherwisa 
 16 
 
IS2 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 could be. But birds have the largest bones in pro- 
 portion to their weight : their bones are more hollow 
 than those of animals which do not fly ; and there- 
 fore, they have strength without having to carry more 
 weight than is absolutely necessary. Their quills 
 derive strength from the same construction. They 
 have another peculiarity to help their flight. No 
 other animals have any communication between the 
 air-vessels of their lungs and the hollow parts of their 
 bodies : but birds have ; and by this means, ♦hey 
 can blow out their bodies as we do a bladder, and 
 thus make themselves lighter, when they would 
 either make their flight towards the ground slower or 
 rise more swiftly, or float more easily in the air. 
 Fishes possess a power of the same kind, though not 
 by the same means. They have air-bladders in their 
 bodies, and can pufl^them out, or press them closer, 
 at pleasure : — when they want to rise in the water, 
 they fill out the bladder, and this lightens them. If 
 the bladder breaks, the fish remains at the bottom, and 
 can only be held up by the most laborious exertion 
 of the fins and tail. Accordingly, flat fish, as skaits 
 and flounders, which have no hair-bladders, &eldom 
 rise from the bottom, but are found lying on banks 
 in the sea, or at the bottom of sea rivers. 
 
 The pressure and weight of the atmosphere, as 
 shown by the barometer and air-pump, is near 16 
 pounds on every square inch, so that if we could en- 
 tirely squeeze out the air between our two hands, they 
 would cling together with a force equal to the pres- 
 sure of double this weight, because the air would 
 press upon both hands ; and, if we could contrive 
 to suck or squeeze out the air between one hand 
 and the wall, the hand would stick fast to the wall., 
 being pressed on it with the weight of above two 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 183 
 
 hundred weight, that is, near 15 pounds on every 
 square inch of the hand. Now, by a late most cu- 
 rious discovery of Sir Edward Home, the distin- 
 guished anatomist, it is found that this is the very 
 process by which ^zes, and other insects of a similar 
 description, are enabled to walk up perpendicular 
 . surfaces, however smooth, as the sides of walls and 
 1 panes of glass in windows ; and to walk as easily 
 along the ceihng of a room, with their bodies down- 
 wards and their feet over head. Their feet, when 
 ; examined by a microscope, are found to have fiat 
 1^ skins or flaps, Hke the feet of web-footed animals, 
 as ducks and geese ; and they have towards the 
 back part or heel, but inside the skin or flap, two 
 very small toes, so connected with the flap as to 
 draw it close down upon the glass or wall the fly 
 walks on, and to squeeze out the air completely, so 
 that there is a vacuum made between the foot and 
 the glass or wall. The consequence of this is, that 
 the air presses the foot on the wall with a very con- 
 siderable force, compared v^ ith the w^eight of the fly ; 
 for, if its feet are to its body in the same proportion 
 , as ours are to our bodies, since we could support 
 by a single hand on the ceiling of the room, (provid- 
 ed it made a vacuum,) more than our whole weight, 
 namely, a weight of fifteen stone, the fly can easily 
 move on four feet in the same manner, by help of 
 the vacuum made under its feet. It has likewise been 
 found that some of the larger sea animals are by the 
 same construction, only upon a greater scale, enabled 
 to climb the perpendicular and smooth surfaces of the 
 ice hills among which they live. Some kinds of 
 lizard have the same power of climbing, and of 
 creeping with their bodies downwards along the ceil- 
 ing of a room ; and the means by which they are 
 
1S4 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 enabled to do so are the same. In the large feet of 
 these animals, the contrivance is easily observed, of 
 the two toes or tightners, by which the skin of the 
 foot is pinned down, and the air excluded in the act 
 of walking or climbing ; but it is the very same, only 
 upon a larger scale, with the mechanism of a fly's or 
 a butterfly's foot ; and both operations, the climbing 
 of the sea-horse on the ice, and the creeping of the 
 fly on the window or the ceihng, are performed ex- 
 actly by the same power — the weight of the atmos- 
 phere — wiiich causes the quicksilver to stand in the 
 weather-giass, the wind to whistle through a key- 
 hole, and the piston to descend in a steam-engine. 
 
 The contri^^ance by which some creeper plants are 
 enabled to climb walls, and fix themselves, deserves 
 attention. The Virginia creeper has a small ten- 
 dril, ending in a claw, each toe of which has a knob, 
 thickly set with extremely small bristles ; they grow 
 into the invisible pores of the wall, and swelling, stick 
 there as long as the plant grows, and prevent the 
 branch from falling ; but when the plant dies, they 
 become thin again, and drop out, so that the branch 
 falls down. The Vanilla plant of the West Indies, 
 climbs around trees likewise by means of tendrils ; 
 but when it has fixed itself, the tendrils drop oflT, and 
 leaves are formed. 
 
 PASSAGE ACROSS THE ANDES. 
 
 As soon as we crossed the pass, which is only se- 
 venty yards long, the captain told me, that it was a 
 very bad place for baggage mules ; that four hun- 
 dred had been lost there, and that we should also very 
 probably lose one. He said that he would get down 
 
REABER AND SPEAKER. 185 
 
 to the water at a place about a hundred yards off, and 
 wait there with his lasso* to catch what might fall into 
 the torrent, and he requested me to lead on his mule. 
 However, I was resolved to see the tumble if there 
 was to be one ; so the captain took away my mule 
 and his own, and while I stood on a projecting rock 
 at the end of the pass, he scrambled down on foot, 
 till he at last got to the level of the water. 
 
 The drove of mules now came in sight, one fol- 
 lowing another ; a few were carrying no burdens, but 
 the rest were either mounted or heavily laden, and 
 as they wound along the crooked path, the difference 
 of colour in the animals, the different colours and 
 shapes of the baggage they were carrying, with the 
 picturesque dress of the peons,]" who were vociferat- 
 ing the wild song by which they drive on the mules, 
 and the dangerous path they had to cross, formed 
 altogether a very interesting scene. 
 
 As soon as the leading mule came to the com- 
 mencement of the pass, he stopped, evidently unwil- 
 ling to proceed ; and of course all the rest stopped 
 also. 
 
 He was the finest mule we had, and on that ac- 
 count had twice as much to carry as any of the 
 others ; his load had never beenreheved, and it con- 
 sisted of four portmanteaus, two of which belonged 
 to me, and which contained not only a very heavy bag 
 of dollars, but also papers which were of such conse- 
 quence, that I could hardly have continued my jour- 
 ney without them. The peons now redoubled their 
 cries, and leaning over the sides of their mules, and 
 picking up stones, they threw them at the leading 
 
 * ^' LorSso ;" a long leather strap with a noose ; used for the 
 purpose of catching wild horses and other wild animals, 
 ( ^^ Peons ;^^ mule-drivers. 
 
 16* 
 
186 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 mule, who now commenced his journey over the 
 path. With his nose down to the ground, literally 
 smelling his way, he walked gently on, after changing 
 the position of his feet, if he found the ground would 
 not bear, until he came to the bad part of the pass, 
 where he again stopped ; and then I certainly began 
 to look with great anxiety at my portmanteaus ; but 
 the peons again threw stones at him, and he conti- 
 nued his path, and reached me in safety ; several 
 others followed. At last a young mule, carrying a 
 portmanteau, with two large sacks of provisions, and 
 many other tilings, in passing the bad point, struck 
 his load against a rock, which knocked his two hind 
 legs over the precipice, and the loose stones imme- 
 diately began to roll from under them ; however, his 
 fore legs were still upon the narrow path ; he had 
 no room to put his head there, but he placed his nose 
 on the path on his left, and appeared to hold on by 
 his mouth. His perilous fate was soon decided by a 
 loose mule which came after him, and, knocking his 
 comrade's nose off the path, destroyed the balance, 
 and head over heels the poor creature instantly com- 
 menced a fall, which was really quite terrific. With 
 all his baggage firmly lashed to him, he rolled down 
 the steep slope, until he came to the part which was 
 perpendicular, and then seeming to bound off, and 
 turning round in the air, fell into the deep torrent on 
 his back and baggage, and instantly disappeared. I 
 thought of course that he was killed ; but he rose, 
 looking wild and scared, and immediately endeavour- 
 ed to stem the torrent which was foaming about him. 
 For a moment he seemed to succeed ; but the eddy 
 suddenly caught the great load on his back, and turn- 
 ed him completely over ; down went his head, with 
 all his baggage, and he was carried down the stream. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 187 
 
 As suddenly, however, he came up agam ; but he 
 was now weak, and went down the stream, turned 
 round and round by the eddy, until, passing the cor- 
 ner of the rock, I lost sight of him. I saw, however, 
 the peons, with their lassos in their hands, run down 
 the side of the torrent for some little distance ; but 
 they soon stopped, and after looking towards the 
 poor mule for some seconds, their earnest attitude 
 gradually relaxed, and when they walked towards me, 
 I concluded that all was over. I walked up to the 
 peons, and was just going to speak to them, when I 
 saw at a distance a solitary mule walking towards 
 us. We instantly perceived that he was the same, 
 whose tall we had just witnessed ; and in a few mo- 
 ments he came up to us to join his comrades. 
 
 LUDICROUS ACCOUNT OF ENGLISH TAXES. 
 
 Permit me to inform you, my friends, what are 
 the inevitable consequences of being too fond of glo- 
 ry ; — Taxes — upon every article which enters into 
 the mouth, or covers the back, or is placed under the 
 foot — taxes upon every thing which is pleasant to 
 see, hear, feel, smell, or taste — taxes upon warmth, 
 light, and locomotion — taxes on every thing on earth, 
 and the waters under the earth — on every thing that 
 comes from abroad, or is grown at home — taxes on 
 the raw material — taxes on every fresh value that is 
 added to it by the industry of man — taxes on the 
 sauce which pampers man's appetite, and the drug 
 that restores him to health — on the ermine which 
 decorates the judge, and the rope which hangs the 
 criminal — on the poor man's salt, and the rich man's 
 
188 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 spice — on the brass nails of the coffin, and the ri- 
 bands of the bride — at bed or board, couchant or le- 
 vant, we must pay. 
 
 The school-boy whips his taxed top — the beard- 
 less youth manages his taxed horse, with a taxed 
 bridle on a taxed road ; — and the dying Englishman 
 pouring his medicine, which has paid seven per 
 cent, into a spoon that has paid fifteen per cent. — 
 flings himself back upon his chintz bed which has 
 paid twenty-two per cent. — makes his will on an 
 eight pound stamp, and expires in the arms of an 
 apothecary, who has paid a license of a hundred 
 pounds for the privilege of putting him to death. 
 His whole property is then immediately taxed from 
 two to ten per cent. Besides the probate, large fees 
 are demanded for burying him in the chancel ; his 
 virtues are handed down to posterity on taxed mar- 
 ble ; and he is then gathered to his fathers, — to be 
 taxed no more. 
 
 In addition, to all this, the habit of dealing with 
 large sums, will make the government avaricious and 
 profuse ; and the system itself will infallibly generate 
 the base vermin of spies and informers, and a still 
 more pestilent race of political tools and retainers, of 
 the meanest and most odious description ; — while 
 the prodigious patronage, which the collecting of 
 this splendid revenue will throw into the hands of 
 government, will invest it with so vast an influence, 
 and hold out such means and temptations to corrup- 
 tion, as all the virtue and public spirit, even of re- 
 publicans, will be unable to resist. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 189 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 'erMit me, with that modesty which becomes 
 a youth, to state the plan of our present exhibition — 
 We do not expect to excel, in the art of speaking, 
 those who have made it their business and profes- 
 sion ; nor is the mere entertainment of the audience, 
 our principal object. Those persons mistake us ex- 
 tremely, who think we mean to be imitators of a 
 theatre. The object of a theatre is amusement ; 
 that of a school should always be instruction. All 
 our performances are intended to illustrate certain 
 important principles of morality ; and to show what 
 virtue is, by means of living examples. While we 
 are doing this, we hope to make some progress in 
 the art of speaking ; — of this, we readily allow there 
 is great necessity. 
 
 Did you here behold a set of actors who professed 
 to entertain the public, you might have both right 
 and cause for criticism ; but here you have a set of 
 modest timid scholars, who have passed but little 
 time in the pursuits of learning — Yet they are willing 
 to perform as well as they can ; that their friends 
 may be able to discern whether they have, or have 
 not, improved their means and advantages. 
 
 Bearing this in mind, you will make great allow- 
 ance for the extreme youth and inexperience of the 
 students. Our pieces, at this time, are not the most 
 diverting ;^- but such as best illustrate the moral sen- 
 timents which we would impress upon the young 
 mind, and which may give a proper direction^ to the 
 movements of the youthful heart. 
 
 * de-vert-ing. f de-rek-shiiii. 
 
190 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 We are encouraged in our nrdi oiis enterprise by 
 considering the characters of which this audience is 
 composed. Those respectable ladies, whom we call 
 by the endeared name oCmoiher, will have no disposi- 
 tion to damp our spirits, or sully our performances : 
 kindness is the ruling passion of your hearts, and the 
 same tender affection will befriend us here, which 
 bore with the cares that attended our infancy, and 
 the petulance and follies of our childhood — You will 
 now look with charity on the imperfect performances 
 of our youth ; you will be exceedingly pleased if we 
 do w^ell ; and this encourages the attempt — Not that 
 we can recompense you for your goodness — That 
 must be left to Him, whose goodness is absolutely 
 without bounds. 
 
 Deign, venerable fathers, to soften for a moment 
 the gravity of age ; and unbend the awful brow of 
 parental authority, that you may smile on the chil- 
 dren of your care — If you set the example to all the 
 people of this assembly of keeping us in spirit and 
 encouraging our endeavours, we hope to perform 
 something that will please you. 
 
 VALEDICTORY ADDRESS. 
 
 That we are formed by nature to be social beings, 
 is a truth, to which every feeling of the heart and 
 every employment of life bears testimony. As soon 
 as w'e become conscious of our existence, we find 
 ourselves in the midst of society the most endearing 
 and delightful. The tender mother w^ho guided our 
 tottering steps in infancy, and taught us that we had 
 within us a mind that would never die, and told us 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 191 
 
 of Him who made and who constantly preserves us, 
 — and the kind father who told us of the world we 
 live in — of its many lands and seas and nations and 
 events, — our brothers and sisters, too, with whom 
 we have studied and talked and played in the merry 
 morning of life, — all these formed a little circle 
 which will ever be dear and delightful to our hearts. 
 
 From the family fireside, we come into the school ; 
 — and here also we are surrounded with social sym- 
 pathies and social pleasures. Our minds are not 
 left tvi grow and expand alone. Like the gay birds 
 of southern climes, that take their upward flight 
 and spread their shining plumes in the sunlight of 
 the morning, so our minds are taught to rise and 
 put forth their strength and beauty together. And 
 what can be so pleasant, so charming, as such a com- 
 pany of youths as a school presents, just beginning, 
 hand in hand, to look upon the works of God around 
 them and the wonders of mind within them,— just be- 
 ginning to drink together from those fountains ^ 
 knowledge which are ever open before them. How 
 happy the hours which are spent m so hea enly an 
 employment ! But these hours pass swiftly away, — 
 term after term and year after year goes by ; — and 
 then comes the cruel moment of separation, v/hen 
 our ranks are to be thinned^ — friendships a^e to be 
 sundered — hearts are to bleed with i^rief. 
 
 But we thank you. Fathers and Mothers, who have 
 come hither on this occasion, to encourage and 
 cheer us with your presence. We thank you, who 
 have gone so far and learned so much, on your jour- 
 ney of life, that you so kindly look back and smile 
 upon us just setting out on our pilgrimage. We 
 thank you who have climbed so high up the Hill of 
 Science, that you condescend to pause a moment in 
 
192 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 your course and bestow a cheering, animating glance 
 on us, who, almost invisible in the distance, are toil- 
 ing over the roughness of the first ascent. May you 
 go on your way in peace, your path, like the sun, 
 waxing brighter and brighter till the perfect day ; and 
 may the light of your example long linger in bless- 
 ings on those of us, who shall survive to take your 
 places in the broad and busy world ! 
 
 We thank you, respected instructers, for your pa- 
 ternal care, your faithful counsels, and affectionate 
 instructions. You have opened before us those ways 
 of wisdom which are full of pleasantness and peace. 
 You have warned us of danger when dangers beset 
 our path; you have removed obstacles when ob- 
 stacles impeded our progress ; you have corrected 
 us when in error and cheered us when discouraged. 
 You have told us of the bright rewards of knowledge 
 and virtue, and of the fearful recompense of igno- 
 rance and vice. In the name of my companions, I 
 thank you, warmly, sincerely thank you for it all. 
 Our lips cannot express the gratitude that glows 
 within our hearts ; but we will endeavour with the 
 blessing of heaven to testify it in our future lives, by 
 dedicating all that we are, and all that we may attain, 
 to the promotion of virtue, and the good of mankind. 
 
 And now, beloved companions, I turn to you. 
 Long and happy has been our connection, as mem- 
 bers of this school ; — but with this day it must close 
 for ever. No longer shall we sit in these seats to 
 listen to the voice that woos us to be wise ; no more 
 shall we sport together on the noisy green, or wan- 
 der in the silent grove. Other scenes, other society, 
 other pursuits await us. We must part ; — but part- 
 ing shall only draw closer the ties that bind us. The 
 setting sun and the evening star, which have so often 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 193 
 
 witnessed our social intimacies and joys, shall still 
 remind us of the scenes that are past. While we 
 live on the earth may we cherish a grateful remem- 
 brance of each other ; and. Oh, in Heaven, may our 
 friendship be purified and perpetuated. — And now to 
 i old and young, to patrons and friends, to instructers 
 I and each other, we tender our reluctant and afFec- 
 i tionate farewell. 
 
 INSTABILITY OF EARTHLY THINGS. 
 
 The moon is incessantly varying, either in her 
 aspect or her stages. Sometimes she looks full 
 upon us, and her visage is all lustre. Sometimes 
 she appears in profile, and shows us only half her 
 enhghtened face. Anon, a radiant crescent but 
 just adorns her brow. Soon it dwindles into a slender 
 streak : till, at length, all her beauty vanishes, and 
 she becomes a beamless orb. Sometimes she rises 
 with the descending day, and begins her procession 
 amidst admiring multitudes. 
 
 Ere long, she defers her progress till the midnight 
 watches, and steals unobserved upon the sleeping 
 world. Sometimes she just enters the edges of the 
 western horizon, and drops us a ceremonious visit. 
 Within a while, she sets out on her nightly tour from 
 the opposite regions of the east ; traverses the whole 
 hemisphere, and never offers to withdraw, till the 
 more refulgent partner of her sway renders her pres- 
 ence unnecessary. In a word, she is, while con- 
 versant among us, still waxing or waning, and 
 ** never continueth in one stay.'' 
 
 Such is the moon, and such are all sublunary things 
 17 
 
194 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 exposed to perpetual vicissitudes. How often and 
 how soon have the faint echoes of renown slept in 
 silence, or been converted into the clamours of oblo- 
 quy ! The same lips, almost with the same breath, 
 cry, Hosanna and Crucify ! Have not riches con- 
 fessed their notorious treachery a thousand and a 
 thousand times? Either melting away like snow in 
 our hands, by insensible degrees, or escaping, like a 
 winged prisoner from its cage, with a precipitate 
 flight. 
 
 Have we not known the bridegroom's closet an 
 ante-chamber to the tomb ; and heard the voice which 
 so lately pronounced the sparkling pair husband and 
 wife, proclaim an everlasting divorce 1 and seal the 
 decree, with that solemn asseveration, "Ashes to 
 ashes, dust to dust !" Our friends, though the medi- 
 cine of life ; our health, though the balm of nature, 
 are a most precarious possession. How soon may 
 the first become a corpse in our arms ; and how 
 easily is the last destroyed in its vigour ! 
 
 li^ou have seen, no doubt, a set of pretty painted 
 birds perching on your trees, or sporting in your 
 meadows. You were pleased with the lovely visit- 
 ants, that brought beauty on their wings, and melody 
 in their throats. But could you ensure the continu- 
 ance of this agreeable entertainment? No, truly. 
 At the least disturbing noise, at the least terrifying 
 appearance, they start from their seats ; they mount 
 the skies, and are gone in an instant, are gone for 
 ever. 
 
 Would you choose to have a happiness which 
 bears date with their arrival, and expires at their de- 
 parture ? If you could not be content with a portion, 
 enjoyable only through such a fortuitous term, not of 
 years, but of moments, ! take up with nothing 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 195 
 
 earthly ; set your affections on things above ; there 
 alone is " no variableness or shadow of turning." 
 
 «SI JS TE PERDS, JE SUIS PERDU."* 
 
 Shine on, thou bright beacon, 
 
 Unclouded and free, 
 From thy high place of calmness, 
 
 O'er life's troubled sea ; 
 Its morning of promise, 
 
 Its smooth seas are gone, 
 And the billows rave wildly — 
 
 Then, bright one, shine on. 
 
 The wings of the tempest 
 
 May rush o'er thy ray : 
 But tranquil thou smilest, 
 
 Undimm'd by its sway : 
 High, high, o'er the world, 
 
 Where storms are unknown 
 Thou dwell est, all beauteous, 
 
 All glorious, alone. 
 
 From the deep womb of darkness, 
 
 The lightning-iiash leaps, 
 O'er the bark of my fortunes 
 
 Each mad billow sweeps ; 
 From the port of her safety 
 
 By warring winds driven. 
 And no light o'er her course. 
 
 But you lone one of heaven. 
 
 * These lines were snggestod by an impress on a seal, re- 
 presenting a boat at sea, and a man at the helm looking up at 
 a star ; with the motto, /' Si je te perds, je suis perdu,^^ 
 
196 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 But, bark of eternity, 
 
 Where art thou now ? 
 The tempest wave shrieks 
 
 O'er each plunge of thy prow. 
 On the world's dreary ocean 
 
 Thus shatter'd and tost, — 
 Then, lone one, shine on, 
 
 '' If I lose thee, Pm lost." 
 
 THE SONG OP WINTER. 
 
 I. 
 I COME from the caves of the frozen north ; 
 But over the earth, ere I issue forth, 
 In the pride of my strength, and the power of my 
 
 might, 
 I bind my veil of silvery white, 
 Lest the tender plants, in her breast that lie, 
 Congealed by my frown, should wither and die. 
 
 II. 
 My breath has a spell, which the waters know ; 
 When they feel its chill, they cease their flow ; 
 And the river, that rushed like a war-steed fleet, 
 Is a marble bridge beneath your feet ; 
 And the rill, that leaped like a child at play, 
 Is cold and still as a form of clay. 
 
 III. 
 
 I have touched the trees with my icy hand 
 And the leaves are gone, like courtiers bland. 
 When the storm has burst on their patron's head. 
 And the fortune that flattered their hopes is fled ; 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 197 
 
 And the forest is withered and sad to see, 
 Like the heart that is seared by adversity. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ye may search the vale and the mountain high ; 
 
 There is not a flower to gladden your eye : 
 
 Ye may enter the bower where the ivy twined ; 
 
 'Tis rent away by the stormy wind ; 
 
 And snows are piled where the rose-tree sprung, 
 
 And the cold blasts sigh where the wild-bird sung. 
 
 V. 
 
 And my voice resounds through the hollow sky, 
 And ye shrink with fear, as a foe were nigh. 
 And ye gather your robes, with shivering care. 
 And ye breathe for spring the ardent prayer ; 
 But I tell you, men of this changeful earth, 
 Your sweetest joys in my reign have birth. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Go close the door, and the shutter bar, — 
 Within may be peace, though without is war, — 
 And heap the wood on the glowing hearth, 
 And circle around, in the joy of mirth — 
 Such joy as the generous heart will feel. 
 When finding its own in another's weal. 
 
 VII. ^ 
 
 There are smiles more dear than spring's soft ray, 
 Eyes brighter far than ihe summers day, 
 And souls more kind than autumn's hand. 
 When pouring his plenty over your land ; 
 And those smiles can greet, and souls can gloWf 
 When the £(ir is storms, and the earth is snow. 
 17* 
 
198 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I summon the evening hours with me, 
 
 The hours for deep thought, and for social glee ; 
 
 For the mazy dance, where light steps tread, 
 
 Like fairy feet, o'er the violet's head ; 
 
 For the song that floats, like the breath of heaven, 
 
 When it mingles its sweets with the dews of evein. 
 
 IX. 
 
 0, then, with the harp of festivity, 
 Ye children of Freedom, welcome me ; 
 And whether ye bask in the summer rays, 
 Or brave the blasts of my stormy days, 
 To Him, whose every gift is good, 
 Still tender the tribute of gratitude. 
 
 THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN. 
 
 " I AM a Pebble, and yield to none," 
 Were the swelling words of a tiny stone ; 
 *' Nor change nor season can alter me? 
 I am abiding while ages flee. 
 The pelting hail and drizzling rain 
 Have tried to soften me long in vain ; 
 And the tender dew has sought to melt, 
 Or to touch my heart ; but it was not felt. 
 
 11. 
 
 " None can tell of the Pebble's birth ; 
 For I am as old as the solid earth. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 199 
 
 The children of man arise, and pass 
 Out of the world like blades of grass ; 
 And many a foot on me has trod, 
 That's gone from sight and under the sod ! 
 I am a Pebble ! but who art thou, 
 Rattling along from the restless bough ?' 
 
 III. 
 The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute. 
 And lay for a moment abashed and mute ; 
 She never before had been so near 
 This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere ; — 
 And she felt for a while perplexed to know 
 How to answer a thing so low. 
 
 But to give reproof of a nobler sort 
 Than the angry look, or the keen retort, 
 At length she said, in a gentle tone, 
 *' Since it has happened that I am thrown 
 From the lighter element, where I grew, 
 Down to another so hard and new. 
 And beside a personage so august, 
 Abased I will cover my head with dust, 
 And quickly retire from the sight of one 
 Whom time nor season, nor storm nor sun, 
 Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding wheel, 
 Has ever subdued, or made to feel." 
 
 V. 
 
 And soon in the earth she sunk away, 
 From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay. 
 But it was not long ere the soil was broke, 
 By the peering head of an infant oak ; 
 
200 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 And as it arose, and its branches spread, 
 The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said— 
 
 VI. 
 
 " A modest Acorn ! never to tell 
 What was enclosed in her simple shell — 
 That the pride of the forest was then shut np, 
 "Within the space of her little cup ! 
 And meekly to sink in the darksome earth, 
 To prove that nothing could hide her worth. 
 And, oh ! how many will tread on me. 
 To come and admire that beautiful tree. 
 Whose head is towering towards the sky, 
 Above such a worthless thing as I. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Useless and vain, a cumberer here, 
 I have been idling from year to year ; 
 But never from this shall a vaunting word 
 From the humble Pebble again be heard, 
 Till something without me, or within. 
 Can show the purpose for which I've been !" 
 The Pebble could not its vow forget, 
 And it lies there wrapped in silence yet. 
 
 THE LOVE OF COUNTRY AND OF HOME. 
 
 There is a land, of every land the pride, 
 Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; 
 Where brighter suns dispense serener light, 
 And milder moons emparadise the night ; 
 A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, 
 Time-tutored age, and love exalted youth. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 201 
 
 The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 
 The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, 
 Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, 
 Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ; 
 In every clime, the magnet of his soul, 
 Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ; 
 For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace, 
 The heritage of nature's noblest race, 
 There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
 A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, 
 Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
 His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, 
 While, in his softened looks, benignly blend 
 The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend. 
 
 Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife, 
 Strows with fresh flowers the narrow way of life ; 
 In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, 
 An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; 
 Around her knees domestic duties meet, 
 And lire-side pleasures gambol at her feet. 
 Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found? 
 Art thou a man ? — a patriot 1 — look around ; 
 Oh! thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, 
 That land thy country, and that spot thy home. 
 
 THE DYING GIRL'S LAMENT. 
 
 Why does my mother steal away 
 
 To hide her struggling tears? 
 Her trembling touch betrays unchecked 
 
 The secret of her fears ; 
 My father gazes on my face 
 
 With yearning, earnest eye ; — 
 And yet, there's none among them all, 
 
 To tell me I must die I 
 
202 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 My little sisters press around 
 
 My sleepless couch, and bring, 
 With eager hands, their garden gift, 
 
 The first sweet buds of spring! 
 I wish they'd lay me where those flowers 
 
 Might lure them to my bed, 
 When other springs and summers bloom, 
 
 And / am with the dead. 
 
 The sunshine quivers on my cheek, 
 
 Glitt'ring, and gay, and fair. 
 As if it knew my hand too weak 
 
 To shade me from its glare I 
 How soon 'twill fall unheeded on 
 
 This death-dewed glassy eye ! 
 Why do they fear to tell me so? 
 
 I knoio that I must die ! 
 
 The summer winds breathe softly through 
 
 My lone, still, dreary room, 
 A lonelier and a stiller one 
 
 Awaits me in the tomb ! 
 But no soft breeze will whisper there, 
 
 No mother hold my head ! 
 It is a fearful thing to be 
 
 A dweller with the dead ! 
 
 Eve after eve the sun prolongs 
 
 His hour of parting light. 
 And seems to make my farewell hours 
 
 Too fair, too heavenly bright! 
 I know the loveliness of earth, 
 
 I love the evening sky, 
 And yet I should not murmur, 
 
 They told me I must die. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 203 
 
 My playmates turn aside their heads 
 
 When parting with me now, 
 The nurse that tended me a babe, 
 
 Now soothes my aching brow. 
 Ah ! why a^f e those sweet cradled-hours 
 
 Of joy and fondling fled ? 
 Not e'en my parents' kisses now 
 
 Could keep me from the dead ! 
 
 Our pastor kneels beside me oft, 
 
 And talks to me of heaven ; 
 But with a holier vision still, 
 
 My soul in dreams hath striven; 
 I've seen a beckoning hand that called 
 
 My fahering steps on high ; 
 I've heard a voice that, trumpet-tongued, 
 
 Bade me prepare to die ! 
 
 THE MARINER'S DREAM. 
 
 In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay, 
 His hammoc* swung loose at the sport of the 
 wind ; 
 
 But watch-worn and w^eary, his cares flew^ away, 
 And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. 
 
 He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers, 
 And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; 
 
 While memory each seen 3 gayly covered with flow- 
 ers, 
 And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. 
 
 * Hammoc, a kind of hanging bed, suspended by hooks, on 
 board ships. 
 
204 REAPER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide, 
 And bade the young dreamer in ecstacy rise; — 
 
 Now far, far behind him, the green waters glide, 
 And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 
 
 The jessamin* clambers in flowers o'er the thatch, 
 And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the 
 wall ; 
 
 All trembling with transport, he raises the latch. 
 And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 
 
 A father bends o'er him with looks of delight ; 
 
 His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear ; 
 And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite 
 
 With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holdsf' 
 dear. 
 
 The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast, 
 Joy quickens his pulses, his hardships seem o'er r 
 
 And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest — 
 *' O God I thou hast blessed me ; I ask for no more." 
 
 Ah ! whence is that flame which now bursts on his 
 
 eye? ^ ^ 
 
 Ah ! what is that sound which now larums his ear ? 
 
 'Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky \ 
 
 'Tis the crushing of thunders, the groan of the 
 
 sphere ! 
 
 He springs from his hammoc — he flies to the deck — 
 Amazement confronts him with images dire — 
 
 Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel awreck — = 
 The masts fly in splinters — the shrouds are on 
 fire! 
 
 * Jesearain, a plant bearing beautiful flowers. 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 205 
 
 Like mountains the billows tremendously swell : 
 In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save; 
 
 Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, 
 And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the 
 wave 1 
 
 O sailor boy I wo to thy dream of delight ! , 
 
 In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. 
 
 Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, 
 Thy parents^ fond pressure, and love's honied kiss? 
 
 O sailor boy ! sailor boy ! never again 
 
 Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay; 
 
 Unblessed, and unhonoured, down deep in the main 
 Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay. 
 
 No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, 
 Or redeem form, or fame from the merciless surge; 
 
 But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet 
 be, 
 And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge ! 
 
 On a bed of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid ; 
 
 Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; 
 Of thy fair yellcw locks threads of amber be made, 
 
 And every part suit to thy mansion below. 
 
 Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away, 
 And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; 
 
 Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye :~ 
 O sailor boy ! sailor boy ! peace to thy soul ! 
 
 THE PLAYTHINGS. 
 
 Oh I mother, here's the very top, 
 
 That brother used to spin ; 
 The vase with seeds I've seen him drop 
 
 To call our robin in ; 
 18 
 
206 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 The line that held his pretty kite, 
 His bow, his cup and ball, 
 
 The slate on which he learned to write, 
 His feather, cap, and all ! 
 
 " My dear, I'd put the things away 
 
 Just where they were before: 
 Go, Anna, take him out to play. 
 
 And shut the closet door. 
 Sweet innocent ! he little thinks 
 
 The slightest thought expressed 
 Of him that's lost, how deep it sinks 
 
 Within a mother's breast!'* 
 
 TO-MORROW. 
 
 To-MORROW, didst thou say? 
 Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow. 
 Go to — I will not hear of it — To-morrow ! 
 'Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury 
 Against thy plenty — who takes thy ready cash, 
 And pays thee naught, but wishes, hopes, and prom- 
 ises. 
 The currency of idiots — injurious bankrupt. 
 That gulls the easy creditor ! — To-morrow ! 
 It is a period no where to be found 
 In all the hoary registers of Time, 
 Unless perchance in the fool's calendar. 
 
 Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society 
 With those who own it. No, my Horatio, 
 'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father ; 
 Wrought of such stuff as dreams are, and as baseless 
 As the fantastic visions of the evening. 
 But soft, my friend — arrest the present momf^t' 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 207 
 
 For be assured they all are arrant tell-tales : 
 And though their flight be silent, and their path 
 Trackless, as the winged couriers of the air, 
 They post to heaven, and there record thy folly. 
 Because, though stationed on th' important watch, 
 Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel, 
 Didst let them pass unnoticed, unimproved. 
 And know, for that thou slumberest on the guard, 
 Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar 
 For every fugitive : and w^hen thou thus 
 Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal 
 Of hood-wanked Justice, who shall tell thy audit ? 
 
 Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio, 
 Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings. 
 'Tis of more worth than kingdoms ! far more precious 
 Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain. 
 O ! let it not elude thy grasp ; but, like 
 The good old patriarch* upon record. 
 Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee. 
 
 OSSIAN'St ADDRESS TO THE SUN. 
 
 O THOU that rollest above, round as the shield 
 of my fathers ! Whence are thy beams, O sun ! 
 thy everlasting light 1 Thou comest forth, in thy 
 awful beauty, and the stars hide themselves in the 
 sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western, 
 wave. But thou thyself movest alone : who can be 
 1 a companion of thy course? The oaks of the 
 I mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay 
 with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again; 
 
 * See Genesis, chap, xxxii. 24—30. 
 
 t Ossian, an ancient Scotch, or Gsehcpoet, supposed to have 
 
 flourished in the second century, and to have been the son of 
 
 j FingaL His poems were translated by Mr. M'Pherson, in 1762* 
 
208 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 the moon herself is lost in heaven ; but thou art for 
 ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy 
 course. 
 
 When the world is dark with tempests; when 
 thunder rolls, and lightning flies; thou lookest in 
 thy beauty, from the clouds, and laughest at the 
 storm. But to Ossian, thou lookest in vain ; for he 
 beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow 
 hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest 
 at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps, like 
 me, for a season, and thy years will have an end. 
 Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice 
 of the morning. 
 
 Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth!! 
 Age is dark and unlovely ; it is like the glimmering 
 light of the moon, when it shines through broken 
 clouds, and the mist is on the hills ; the blast of the 
 north is on the plain, the traveller shrinks in the 
 midst of his journey. 
 
 THE SNOW-FLAKE. 
 
 " Now, if I fall will it be my lot 
 
 To be cast in some lone, and lowly spot, 
 
 To melt, and to sink, unseen, or forgot ? 
 
 And there will my course be ended ?" 
 'Twas this a feathery Snow-Flake said. 
 As down through measureless space it strayed, 
 Or, as half by dalliance, half afraid, 
 
 It seemed in mid air suspended. 
 
 «» Oh ! no," said the Earth, »' thou shalt not lie 
 Neglected and lone on my lap to die, 
 Thou pure and delicate child of the sky! 
 
READER AND SPEAKER. 209 
 
 For, thou wilt be safe in my keeping. 
 But then, I must give thee a lovelier form — 
 Thou wilt not be part of the wintry storm, 
 But revive, when the sunbeams are yellow and warm, 
 
 And the flowers from my bosom are peeping 1 
 
 " And then thou shalt have thy choice, to be 
 Restored in the lily that decks the lea, 
 In the jessamine-bloom, the anemone. 
 
 Or aught of thy spotless whiteness : — 
 To melt, and be cast in a glittering bead, 
 With the pearls, that the night scatters over the mead, 
 In the cup where the bee and the fire-fly feed, 
 
 Regaining thy dazzling brightness. 
 
 *' I'll let thee awake from thy transient sleep, 
 When Viola's mild blue eye shall weep. 
 In a tremulous tear; or, a diamond, leap 
 
 In a drop from the unlock'd fountain : 
 Or leaving the valley, the meadow and heath, 
 The streamlet, the flowers and all beneath 
 Go up and be wove in the silvery wreath 
 
 Encircling the brow of the mountain. 
 
 *' Or, wouldst thou return to a home in the skies! 
 Go shine in the Iris; I'll let thee arise. 
 And appear in the many and glorious dyes 
 
 A pencil of sunbeams is blending ! 
 But true, fair thing, as my name is Earthy 
 I'll give thee a new and vernal birth, 
 When thou shalt recover thy primal worth. 
 
 And never regret descending !" 
 
 " Then I will drop," said the trusting Flake; 
 *'But, bear it in mind, that the choice I make 
 Is not in the flowers, nor the dew to wake>; 
 
 18* 
 
210 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 Nor the mist, that shall pass with the morning. 
 For, things of thyself, they expire with thee ; 
 But those that are lent from on high, like me, 
 They rise and will live, from thy dust set free, 
 
 To the regions above returning. 
 *' And, if true to thy word, and just thou art, 
 Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart, 
 Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart 
 
 And return to my native heaven. 
 For, I would be placed in the beautiful bow, 
 From time to time, in thy sight to glow, 
 So thou may'st remember the Flake of Snow 
 
 By the promise that God hath given !" 
 
 THE LONE INDIAN. 
 
 For many a returning autumn, a lone Indian was 
 seen standing at the consecrated spot we have men- 
 tioned ; but, just thirty years after the death of Soon- 
 seetah, he was noticed for the last time. His step 
 was then firm, and his figure erect, though he seemed 
 old, and way-worn. Age had not dimmed the fire 
 of his eye, but an expression of deep melancholy 
 had settled on his wrinkled brow. It was Pow- 
 ontonamo — he who had once been the Eagle of the 
 Mohawks ! 
 
 He came to lie down and die beneath the broad 
 oak, which shadowed the grave of Sunny-eye. 
 Alas, the white man's axe had been there ! The 
 tree he had planted was dead ; and the vine, which 
 had leaped so vigorously from branch to branch, 
 now yellow and withering, was falling to the ground. 
 A deep groan burst from the soul of the savage. 
 For thirty wearisome years, he had watched that 
 oak, with its twining tendrils. They were the only 
 
READER AND SPEAKER, 211 
 
 things left in the wide world for him to love, and 
 they were gone ! 
 
 He looked abroad. The hunting land of his tribe 
 was changed, like its chieftain. No light canoe now 
 shot down the river, like a bird upon the wing. The 
 laden boat of the white man alone broke its smooth 
 surface. The Englishman's road wound like a ser- 
 pent around the banks of the Mohawk ; and iron 
 hoofs had so beaten down the war path, that a hawk's 
 eye could not discover an Indian track. 
 
 The last wigwam was destroyed ; and the sun 
 looked boldly down upon spots he had visited only 
 by stealth, during hundreds and hundreds of moons. 
 The few remaining trees, clothed in the fantastic 
 mourning of autumn ; the long line of heavy clouds, 
 melting away before the coming sun : and the distant 
 mountain, seen through the blue mist of departing 
 twilight, alone remained as he had seen them in his 
 boyhood. 
 
 All things spoke a sad language to the heart of 
 the desolate Indian. " Yes," said he, "the young 
 oak and the vine are like the Eagle and the Sunny- 
 eye. They are cut do\Am, torn, and trampled on. 
 The leaves are falling, and the clouds are scattering, 
 like my people. I wish I could once more see the 
 trees standing thick, as they did when my mother 
 held me to her bosom, and sung the warlike deeds of 
 the Mohawks." 
 
 A mingled expression of grief and anger passed 
 over his face, as he watched a loaded boat in its pas- 
 sage across the stream. " The white man carries 
 food to his wife and children, and he finds them in 
 his home," said he. " Where is the squaw and the 
 papoose of the red man ? They are here !" As he 
 spoke he fixed his eye thoughtfully upon the grave. 
 
212 READER AND SPEAKER. 
 
 After a gloomy silence, he again looked round upon 
 the fair scene, with a wandering and troubled gaze. 
 " The pale face may like it," murmured he ; " but 
 an Indian cannot die here m peace." So saying, he 
 broke his bow-string, snapped his arrows, threw 
 them on the burial-place of his fathers, and departed 
 for ever. 
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE. 
 
 The scene was more beautiful far to my eye 
 
 Than if day in its pride had arrayed it ; 
 The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure arched sky 
 
 Looked pure as the Spirit that made it. 
 The murmur rose oft, as 1 silently gazed 
 
 On the shadowy waves' playful motion. 
 From the dim distant isle, till the lighthouse fire blazed 
 
 Like a star in the midst of the ocean. 
 
 No longer the joy of the sailor boy's breast 
 
 Was heard in the wildly-breathed numbers ; 
 The sea-bird had flown to his wave-girded nest, 
 
 The lisherman sunk to his slumbers. 
 One moment I looked from the hill's gentle slope, 
 
 (All hushed was the billows' commotion,) 
 And thought that the lighthouse look' d lovely as Hope, 
 
 That star of life's tremulous ocean. 
 
 The time is long past, and the scene is afar; 
 
 But, when my head rests on its pillow, 
 Will memory sometimes rekindle the star 
 
 That blazed on the breast of the billow. 
 In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies. 
 
 And Death stills the heart's last emotion, 
 Oh ! then may the Seraph of Mercy arise, 
 
 Like a star on Eternity's ocean! 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Hymn to the Sun 5 
 
 Opposition between War and the Gospel 6 
 
 What is that, Mother! -.. 7 
 
 The Gipsy Wanderer 9 
 
 Opinion relative to the Right of England to tax America 10 
 
 Tne Frost 11 
 
 The great Refiner 12 
 
 Northern Seas 13 
 
 The Ocean , 15 
 
 The Ball 17 
 
 The Sheep 18 
 
 The true History of a poor little Mouse 19 
 
 The little Philosopher 19 
 
 The Horse 23 
 
 The two Sixpences that at last made one Shilling 25 
 
 Who made the Sun, Moon, and Stars 27 
 
 The Wind 28 
 
 Speech of the Scythians to Alexander the Great 29 
 
 The Holiday 31 
 
 The Snow-Storm 31 
 
 The Snail 32 
 
 Dialogue 33 
 
 Prejudice , 35 
 
 The Old Cloak 37 
 
 The praises of a long and heavy Purse 38 
 
 The Fox and the Crow 40 
 
 The Bedlamite 41 
 
 The Colonists 42 
 
 The Child on the Ocean 46 
 
 The Hare and the Tortoise 47 
 
 The Miseries of War 48 
 
 Why an Apple falls 49 
 
 Spring 52 
 
 The Dog and his Shadow 54 
 
 Judah's Address to Joseph 55 
 
 The Kite; or pride must have a fall 56 
 
 The Fly and the Spider 57 
 
 Things by their right names » 60 
 
214 CONTENTS. 
 
 The Butterfly's ball and the Grasshopper's feast , , 61 
 
 On a Spaniel called Beau killing a little bird 62 
 
 Beau's Reply 63 
 
 Be kind to your sister 64 
 
 The Dead Mother 72 
 
 The Acorn and Pumpkin 73 
 
 The Prisoner 75 
 
 The little Fish who would not do as he was bid 76 
 
 We are seven 77 
 
 The Nightingale and Glow-worm 79 
 
 He would be a soldier 80 
 
 The African Chief 84 
 
 Washing day 66 
 
 How to tell bad news .* 89 
 
 Casablanca 90 
 
 The landing of the Pilgrim fathers 92 
 
 Works of the Coral insect 93 
 
 The Coral insect 96 
 
 The Family Bible 98 
 
 The Rpcd-sparrow's Nest 99 
 
 Gesle r and Albert .' 1 00 
 
 Apologue 104 
 
 The Boys and the Frogs 105 
 
 A Chapter on Loungers 107 
 
 The way to find out Pride 108 
 
 Great effects result from little causes 110 
 
 The Orphan boy Ill 
 
 The Spider, Caterpillar, and Silk-worm 113 
 
 The Silk- worm's Will 116 
 
 The Adventures of a Rain-drop 116 
 
 T: 1 '^ D e c 1 i r 1 e f L i fe 118 
 
 RolJa to the Peruvians 119 
 
 The Bucket 120 
 
 Partiality of Autliors 121 
 
 The Life Boat 122 
 
 The Red Squirrel 1'23 
 
 The Character of the American Indians 123 
 
 The Character and Extirpation of the Indians 126 
 
 The Huma 128 
 
 On Gaming 129 
 
 The WouFi :led Eaglo 130 
 
 Monitioi^s on the flight of Time 131 
 
 The Air 133 
 
 The Visible Firmament 134 
 
CONTENTS. 215 
 
 Cowperonthe receipt of his Mother's Picture. .*., 135 
 
 The tempting Moment 138 
 
 Devotion of Lafayette to the cause of America 143 
 
 The Power of Eloquence 145 
 
 Colonel Isaac Haynes. 148 
 
 South Carolina during the Revolution , 150 
 
 South Carolina and Massachusetts 154 
 
 Horrors of War 156 
 
 Specimen of the eloquence of James Otis 158 
 
 Pitt on American affairs 160 
 
 Vindication of Spain.... 161 
 
 Salathiel to Titus 162 
 
 The end of the World 164 
 
 The Ocean 166 
 
 The Folly and Wickedness of War 167 
 
 Battle of Waterloo 16^ 
 
 Character of Napoleon Bonaparte . , 171 
 
 Marco Bozzaris 174 
 
 Ground Swell 176 
 
 Suflferings from W^ar 178 
 
 Remarkable instance of adaptation and contrivance in Nature. ... 181 
 
 Passage across the Andes 184 
 
 Ludicrous account of English taxes , . 187 
 
 Prologue 189 
 
 Vciledictcry Address , lyO 
 
 Instability of Earthly Things 193 
 
 Si je te perds, je suis perdu ; or, If I lose thee, I am lost. . . . o 195 
 
 The Song of Winter 196 
 
 The Pebble and the Acorn 298 
 
 Love of Country and of Home ; 200 
 
 The Dying Girl's Lament 2C1 
 
 The Mariner's DreaiU 203 
 
 The Playthings 205 
 
 To-morrow , , . , 206 
 
 Ossian's Address to the Sun « 207 
 
 The Snow-flake 208 
 
 The Lone Indian , 210 
 
 The Lighthouse 212 
 
SFLECTIONS FOR DECLAMATION. 
 
 It has bee •• ought that the following references to pieces suitable 
 for declamai ., might prove a convenience to those pupils who usa 
 the following books. 
 
 Sequel to the Analytical Reader. 
 
 The Stream of Time , 66 
 
 Omnipresence of Deity g^, 
 
 Lines written in the Church- Yard of Richmond 98' 
 
 Family Worship in a Cott.i^e r2G 
 
 The Instability of Earthly Greatness 13-2 
 
 The Cottage of the Hills 15,^ . 
 
 A Thought on Death. , 182 
 
 Comparative Insignificance of the Earth 184 
 
 A Fragment , 192 ' 
 
 Conclusion of a Discourse at Plymouth 202 i 
 
 Millennium ;... 236 '; 
 
 Hubert and Arthur; a Dialogue 248 1; 
 
 Niagara 2i>i I* 
 
 The Wives and Plighted Maids of Weinsburgh 262 I 
 
 Marshal Saxe and his Physician 270 
 
 Mount Chamouny, the hour before Sunrise 278 
 
 Commencing with, " T/ie great loet of the prescra day". 
 Practical effects of an unrestrained Imagination 284 , 
 
 Analytical Reader. 
 The Philosopher's Scales, [commencing, " What were they?''],, 46 
 
 Falls of the Mohawk 56 
 
 Pity 64 
 
 Eulogium on Wilham Penn 74 
 
 Duelhng (The Poetry) 98 
 
 Warrior's Wreath 112 
 
 David and Goliath 120 
 
 The Rainbow 146 
 
 The Adopted Child 15S 
 
 The Better Land 172 
 
 Horrors of War 190 
 
 William Tell 19G 
 
 "Utility of the Sea 210 
 
 Mystery of the Sea 212 ^ 
 
 Destruction . of Sennacherib's Host 21P j 
 
 Introduction to the Analytical Reader. 
 
 The Beggar Girl 15 
 
 Employment 19 
 
 Charles and James 2f 
 
 To the Robin 2^ 
 
 Waste not. AVfrnt not 3t 
 
 The Lie. 41 
 
 The Bah 44 
 
 Little Charles 46 
 
 The Country Boy?s»Can 61 
 
 Lazy Lawrence 75 
 
 A Spring Morning 794 
 
 The Child's Inquiry 8t 
 
 The Little Bird's Complaint ^ 
 
 John Tompkins ^ 
 
 Little Graves 11 
 
 Mother, what is Death? .• 1^ 
 
 A curious Ixistrumeut*.. «... .«••*••• l^-' 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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